


Where the Albatross Crash-Lands

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Will Graham, Couch Sex, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Deaf Character, Frottage, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22646311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Everyone has two marks on their arm: one is the name of their soulmate, the other is the name of their mortal enemy. There's no way of knowing which is which. This same trick of fate makes it so that your Marks are the only two voices you will ever hear when you go deaf at sixteen.Hannibal has a nice voice. Will hopes he's his mate. He hopes he never hears the voice of the Chesapeake Ripper.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 506
Kudos: 1992
Collections: Hannigram Kinkmeme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [强行着陆](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23505355) by [HayKer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HayKer/pseuds/HayKer), [lzskwzl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzskwzl/pseuds/lzskwzl)



> So I was writing a deaf-until-soulmate AU because I don't think I'd ever seen that done, and then the kinkmeme suggested soulmate tattoos too, and I thought it would be delightfully fucky to have Will have Hannibal's and the Ripper's name on his arms. What could go wrong?
> 
> Title taken from lyrics for 'The Diving Bell' by Starset. Please, if it's your jam, listen to that song, and the whole album. It's so wonderful.

Will Graham wears long sleeves, always. In the hottest days of the year, sweating and panting and so red-cheeked he rivals the bright red of salmon flesh, he wears long sleeves. If he can't get away with it, like the summer he worked for McDonald's and they made him wear polo shirts, he wore athletic grips around one arm and told everyone else he broke it when they asked him what happened to earn him a cast.

His left arm is the worse one. The tattoo on that, well, he can't risk anyone accidentally seeing it. He fucked up his skin and arm doing that all through his teenage years; he's more sensitive there because his skin never got wind and sun against it. He's several shades paler on his left forearm than his right and there's no amount of tanning that'll fix that. His wrist is weaker, lacking the natural movement that would have strengthened it, but he still insists on shooting from both hands.

Will Graham has two tattoos on his arms, like everyone else. Like everyone else, one has the name of his soulmate, the other has the name of his true mortal enemy. Like everyone else, there's no way to tell which is which until he meets one of them. Even then some say it's never clear-cut. If you meet your soulmate by rear-ending them, for instance, it would be easy to assume they were your enemy and part ways for good.

One of Will Graham's Soul Names does not sound like a name at all. It sounds like a title. And it changes. That doesn't happen to everyone else.

The first time he remembers seeing the name, old enough to know how to read, it was '1057'. Then, later, 'подопечный #611990-A'. Learning to read didn't do him much good, then; the word is obviously not English. His soulmate or his mortal enemy is foreign. Then 'Boîtier 11-4331-FR'. Then 'Il Mostro di Firenze'. He stopped checking it quite so often after that. But the Soul Name change brings with it a flash of heat, an electric current running up his spine that is almost impossible to ignore. He doesn't look. He can't look, he doesn't want to see what the person who is potentially his soulmate goes by, these days.

Now, it's 'The Chesapeake Ripper'. Will knows that name far too well.

The other tattoo on his arm is more normal, at least. 'Hannibal Lecter' – a little archaic sounding and definitely not as forgettable or confusable as 'John Smith'. Not that Will would ever be confused about his soulmate.

When a child is born, they are able to hear. Enough to learn the language of the land, enough to be aware of cars and dogs and dangers. Enough to be able to speak aloud if they need to. Then, Will Graham, just like everyone else, turned sixteen and went deaf. No hearing; a complete void of sound that made the mandatory sign language classes invaluable as he grew into adulthood and prepared for navigation of the world at large.

They say you can hear the voices of your soulmate and your enemy. Only those voices. If you touch one of them after hearing them, background noise comes back. You can hear dogs and cars and music again. But that doesn't tell you if they're your soulmate or your enemy. Will doesn't want the Ripper's voice to be the first thing he hears. He never wants to hear it.

He hopes Hannibal has a nice voice. Even if he's Will's enemy, it would be nice to hear things again, other than the thoughts in his own head.

Hannibal Lecter has two names on his arm, just like everyone else. One of them is a constant, 'Will Graham'. Very American-sounding. He's probably very plain, quite uninteresting altogether, but he is either Hannibal's soulmate, or his mortal enemy, and that makes him intriguing enough to remain aware of in the world. Will Graham's name turned up when Hannibal was seven.

The other Soul Name changes. First, it was the name 'Vladis Grutas'. When the man killed Mischa, and fed Hannibal her flesh, and Hannibal killed him, it changed to his second-in-command. Then the next, then the next, until the deed was done, and his right arm became, for a while, completely bare.

Then, it was the name of the man who ran the orphanage. When Hannibal was taken away and lived with his uncle, it remained, until he moved to Italy. Then it was one Rinaldo Pazzi. Hunting monsters, how entertaining it must have been. Hannibal wonders if, even to his day, the name 'Il Mostro' is written on the man's arm, never to fade.

Now, the name is one Jack Crawford. Which makes it a very interesting day when that same man breezes his way into Hannibal's office like he owns the place. Hannibal is not stupid, nor mindless. He knows an enemy when he sees one; a threat to his existence. He is ready to act, if necessary, the same way he dealt away with one unfortunate Miriam Lass.

Until Jack turns, and signs to him that he needs a profile done. Jack wears his sleeves down – already mated, most likely. People don't need to flaunt their Names around when they've found their one and only. He wonders who Jack's enemy is.

"What is the name of the man you want me to profile?" he signs to Jack as he's making his way out the door.

"Will Graham," Jack replies.

And that is when Hannibal's life, suddenly, becomes far, far more exciting.

His name is Will Graham, and he wears his sleeves down. He has the restless demeanor of a hunting dog kept too long in the kennels. He's prickly, shoulders up, eyes down, teeth bared even when his mouth is shut. He walks in, signing some hasty excuse about traffic making him late, his fingers and arms moving seamlessly through the signs in a way obviously well-practiced, as everyone is, but also…strangely repressed. The same way people who don't know how to smile learn it from a book. Every inch of him is steeped in some close-knit, penned-in animal behavior. Not a toe out of line.

"Will," Jack signs, and gestures to Hannibal. "This is Doctor Lecter. I called him to help us with the Shrike case."

Hannibal watches, intrigued, as Will visibly freezes as Jack signs out his name. His eyes flash, a lovely blue of stained glass and gunmetal grey, and then lock on Hannibal. Narrow, suspicion flaring his nostrils. He wets his lips, settling into his chair, and Hannibal tilts his head, leaning back with a casual air. It is not impossible, he supposes, that his name is not on Will's arm like Will's is on his. This might not be _the_ Will Graham that has stained his skin since Hannibal was seven years old.

His head tilts, when Will merely nods at him in greeting, signs a swift and polite 'Nice to meet you', and then turns his attention back to Jack.

Hannibal stifles a smile, only the corner of his lips twitching up. Well, if Will desires to play coy, Hannibal will not rush him. It's an intimate thing, he's sure, hearing someone's voice for the first time in decades. Best not to rush into anything too quickly. They have the rest of their lives, if this is The Will Graham.

Hannibal has never not been able to hear. He touched and killed his first enemy before he lost the ability to hear other voices, but the background noises have always remained. He hears Will's soft exhale, the creak of leather as he shifts his weight and the soft _thump_ of him lowering his bag to the ground. 

Still, he aches to hear Will speak. He wants to know if this is that Will Graham. He's quite lovely to look at, the harsh clench of his jaw, his wild-looking eyes, his unruly hair. He knows Will can feel the heaviness of his gaze, the tension in his shoulders a dead giveaway.

"How many are we up to, now?" Will signs to Jack.

"Eight girls have been reported missing," Jack replies, his hands moving elegantly in front of him. "No bodies, nothing that comes out of bodies. Technically we can't rule this guy as a mass murderer until something shows up."

Will nods, his eyes gravitating to the board sitting against one of Jack's office walls. He stands, prowling to it, a hunter's gait restrained by leashes and tightropes. He turns, so that Jack and Hannibal can see him speak; "They all look very Mall of America, don't they?"

"He has a type," Jack concedes.

Will hums, and Hannibal lets his eyes close in a slow blink. Even Will's hum, he shouldn't be able to hear; yes, he is the one. He's the one Hannibal's soul was made for. "He's using them as surrogates," Will signs. "One of these is his golden ticket. They represent her."

"Do you think he's choosing them based on aesthetics alone?" Hannibal signs, drawing Will's eyes. They lower, so Will can watch his hands. "Surely there would be more physical similarities between them."

Jack's shoulders move as he grunts. Hannibal hears it, because the mark on his arm dictates Jack is his enemy, for the moment. Will doesn't, clearly. Nothing draws his eye from Hannibal's hands.

He presses his lips together, clears his throat. "Have there been any confessions?" he signs to Jack.

Jack nods. "Coming out of the woodwork like damn flies. Some idiot took photos of the most recent victim, Eloise Nichols, and Freddie Lounds posted it on TattleCrime."

Will's upper lip twitches back, and he returns to his seat. "Tasteless," he mutters aloud.

Hannibal smiles. "Do you have a problem with taste?" he asks, using his voice, and sees Will stiffen, his eyes wide and his head snapping to meet Hannibal's gaze. Every inch of him is tense as a bowstring, a band of elastic ready to snap.

Unheard, but loud as a canon; _You can hear me?_

Hannibal merely inclines his head. _Yes._

Will wets his lips, and looks away. "My thoughts are not often tasty," he says, his voice ragged. He probably hasn't spoken out loud for years. The growl of his voice is like the crisp tang of fat seared into meat. Delicious, flooding Hannibal's head. His fingers drum anxiously on the arm of his chair.

"Nor mine," Hannibal purrs. "No effective barriers."

"I build forts," Will says.

"Associations come quickly."

"So do forts."

Hannibal tilts his head, noting that Will, beyond that first moment of shock, is refusing to meet his eyes. Jack makes another sound, and Hannibal resists the urge to acknowledge it – it would be a bad move, if Will deduced that both Will's and Jack's names were on Hannibal's arms. Whatever second name is on Will, Hannibal would do well to pose as his mate, not his mortal enemy, regardless of what the truth might be.

There is no doubt in his mind, but there may be doubt in Will's, and until Hannibal knows who Will's enemy is, he must keep his cards close to his chest.

"You can hear each other?" Jack signs.

Hannibal smiles, and gives a soft, faux-sheepish nod. "It appears I will not be able to help you after all, Jack," he signs. "Clearly there is a conflict of interests."

Jack frowns heavily between the two of them, and Will makes another sound, drawing Hannibal's attention. "Whose…whose profile were you working on?" he demands, soft and high-pitched. He turns back to Jack, and signs; "Whose profile was he working on?"

"I'm sorry, Will," Hannibal murmurs. "If I had known -."

"Don't psychoanalyze me," Will snaps. He stands, abruptly, pulling his bag back over his shoulder. "I can't fucking believe this -."

He turns to go, and Hannibal rises from his seat, unwilling to let Will simply leave, now that Hannibal knows who he is. "Will, please," he says, and reaches out, surprised when Will recoils from him to put distance between them, breathing hard. He doesn't want Hannibal to touch him – why? Doesn't he want to hear? "Observing is what we do. I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off."

"So, what, you were going to come in here and dig around my grey matter?" Will demands, showing his teeth again. Hannibal is blocking his exit; if he wants to leave, he'll have to force it.

Hannibal sighs. "I imagine everything you see and do affects you deeply. Your values, your decency, are present, yet appalled at your associations. Shocked at your dreams." Will's eyes flash and he clenches his fists so hard his knuckles turn white. "No room in the bone area of your skull for the things you love."

He takes a single step closer, and Will takes one back.

"Don't," he breathes. His hand flattens on the inside of his right arm, tugging at the sleeve. Enough that Hannibal can make out the '-er' writ in cursive on his wrist.

"I have no desire to invade your mind, Will, not without open invitation," Hannibal says, surprising himself with his sincerity. If Will is his mate – and he is, Hannibal is sure of it – then they're about to play a much more interesting game than therapist and patient. "But don't do either of us the disservice of making me your enemy. I'm sure that I'm not."

Will blinks, pressing his lips together. Sighs through his nose, drops his gaze. "I -." He lets his sleeve fall, a shudder running through him. Hannibal is dying to know what other name Will might have on his arm. Perhaps the name of his wife, or girlfriend. Maybe someone he thought he loved. Maybe someone he didn't want to hate. "I have to go. Are you going to let me go?"

"Let me invite you to dinner," Hannibal presses, taking another step closer. "Away from…prying eyes."

Will's gaze flashes to Jack. He breathes out heavily, and gives a single, jerky nod. "Alright," he murmurs, his voice weak. Raspy; clearly he isn't used to speaking this much. He wipes a hand over his mouth and breathes through his fingers.

Hannibal smiles, and takes a step back, freeing up the door. Will practically flies through it, and though it's so tempting, to touch Will and give him the gift of hearing again, he resists. His fingers curl at his sides, and he watches Will disappear through the door, hears it close with a soft 'click'.

Jack stands, drawing his attention. "I don't know what the Hell just happened," he signs, "but maybe it would be best not to poke him too hard, Doctor Lecter. Will is…a particular kind of animal."

"Nevertheless," Hannibal returns, "clearly he and I are connected in some way. We could hear each other."

Jack huffs, and manages a wry smile. "Let's hope he doesn't decide you are his enemy."

"Of course," Hannibal signs with a smile. "But I think it goes without saying, Jack, that I couldn't in good conscience whisper the secrets of my mate in the ears of his superior." Jack's lips pull down in a frown, but before he can reply, Hannibal continues; "I think I can help Will see your killer's face. I have no intention of leaving him be. Off the record, of course."

"Of course," Jack signs, his eyes gleaming with victory. How interesting, to be invested in the future of both his mate and his enemy. And here Hannibal thought he would be alone with his own thoughts this evening. The promise of Will's voice, his company, an open opportunity to dig into his grey matter, has presented itself, and Hannibal is suddenly ravenous.

"Keep me posted," Jack signs, and gestures towards the door. Hannibal ducks his head, and leaves, and wonders at the marvelous evolution of Soul Marks. Clearly his name is not on Jack's arm, as Jack's is on his. Otherwise Jack would be able to hear him.

He wonders who Jack's enemy is. Perhaps he, like Hannibal, did away with them when he was still young. Some convict in the system with no chance of parole. Perhaps it is the Shrike himself. The question sits at the back of his mind as he exits the facility and stands in the sunlight, hearing the rev of an engine, and turning when the car comes to a halt in front of him. The window rolls down, revealing Will.

"I'm going to pretend I have any choice in the matter," Will says in greeting. "What time, and what's your address?"

Hannibal smiles, and pulls out his personal card, reaching in and letting it drop in the passenger seat, since he knows Will won't want to touch him. "Does seven suit?" he asks.

Will presses his lips together, warily eyeing Hannibal's proximity, and he nods. "Yeah," he murmurs, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "Seven's fine."

"I'll see you then," Hannibal says, and straightens. "Come hungry."

Will huffs, a hint of a smile gracing his face. He rolls the window back up and pulls away. Hannibal watches him go, smiling all the while, a flurry of anticipation putting a spring in his step all the way back to his own vehicle.

Will can't help checking his arms as soon as he's somewhere private. Yes, there, in the same curling font it has always been; _Hannibal Lecter_. The name on the card is the same. Figures, that Will would meet one of his Marks in the midst of an open murder investigation.

At least it wasn't the Ripper. The name hasn't changed. He half expected it to, but no – clearly he's tied to the Ripper, whatever name or moniker he has gone by through the years. His isn't changing from person to person, just name to name.

He wonders what Hannibal's other name is. Wonders if, like Will, he's not sure if Will is his enemy or not. But no, Will can read people, even people like Lecter. Maybe. A dinner invitation would be a good way to figure out on which side of the coin they lie to each other. It feels like a date.

He kind of wants it to be a date. Hannibal is handsome, his voice…. God, his voice is smooth, low, soothing. The kind of voice he'd expect of a psychiatrist. The accent was unexpected; Will only heard Louisiana drawl before he went deaf and now he's only ever going to hear that voice, for the rest of his life.

It's…nice. It could definitely be worse.

He arrives at seven on the dot with a bottle of red wine that's both expensive and foreign, he can't pronounce the name and has no hope of trying. He checks that his sleeves are rolled down and buttoned tightly, so they won't ride up. He fixes his hair, feeling stupid for doing it, rings the bell and sees the little light flash on the inside for the non-hearing to be aware of a visitor.

He checks his sleeves again, huffing at himself. Hannibal has already seen him, prickly and rude, and still invited him over. The scents of food waft in from the little open hatch on the side of the door, and then the space darkens, and the door opens.

Hannibal greets him with a warm smile that makes Will's stomach feel empty and his chest rattle around itself. He exhales, flushing more when he realizes Hannibal can hear it, and thrusts the bottle out in offering.

"Tried my best," he offers.

Hannibal blinks at the bottle, and takes it by the base. Will is sure it doesn't miss him how Will's fingers flinch back, curl as soon as he's sure the wine won't drop. He doesn't want to – he wants to. They say you know your enemy from your soulmate if you touch them. Will wants Hannibal to be his mate so badly he can't breathe, just because it means a serial killer, a criminal, is his enemy, and that makes sense. That's bearable.

But what if he's not? What if the Ripper, whoever he is, is the perfect counterpart to Will's fucked-up soul, and Hannibal is the one he's meant to hate? He couldn't deal with that reality. It's best not to know. Best to just sit and listen to his nice voice and eat at his table and let the possibility be enough for him.

"Thank you, Will," Hannibal murmurs, and Will sighs, the anxious flutter in his chest eased at Hannibal's voice. He steps back, gesturing for Will to come in, and Will sheds his coat and hangs it up in the closet by the door as Hannibal regards the label. "We'll drink it tonight; it will pair wonderfully. This way."

Hannibal's house is fancy and warm and dark. The kind of place that holds secrets, skeletons upon skeletons in the closet. Dark wood that gleams in the low light. A kitchen that's wide and spacious and flooded with delicious scents that make Will's mouth water. It's the kind of place guests would genuinely like a tour of.

He clears his throat and Hannibal turns to him, and he flushes, remembering he can't just make noise around this man. Hannibal will hear every sound Will makes. His attention is caught by something Will cannot hear, and he sets the wine down and turns off an alarm on the oven.

Will frowns. "You can hear," he murmurs.

Hannibal pauses, and eyes him over his shoulder. "Yes," he replies. "I never stopped, truthfully. I met my first Mark when I was still an adolescent."

That -. That means that…. "Not your mate, I'm guessing."

Hannibal gives him a warm smile, and shakes his head. "No, I'm certain he was not."

Will can't breathe. "Marks can change," he says. "If a mate dies, or -."

"A touch makes them permanent," Hannibal finishes for him, with another small nod. He watches Will for a moment longer, and then sighs through his nose, turning and removing whatever was in the oven and placing it on the counter. It smells absolutely fantastic; sweet meat and a thick glaze. Honey, and cranberries, and cinnamon like Goddamn Christmas. Hannibal meets his eyes from behind the kitchen island. "Have your Marks ever changed, Will?"

"Not your name," Will replies, silent as a grave. His fingers twitch with the instinct to sign, but all he manages are half-formed motions. It's nice, speaking, and knowing he'll be heard.

Hannibal smiles. "Nor yours," he says. "I'll admit, you have a relatively common name; I'm surprised at the ease through which we met."

Will huffs. "I wouldn't call that 'easy'," he replies. "Girls had to die and you had to be curious, right place right time."

"Is it?" Hannibal asks. "You seem…reluctant."

"Let's just say I wouldn't want a therapist as either my mate or my enemy."

Hannibal blinks at him, and then laughs, lowly. Christ, he has a nice laugh. "Perhaps, then, for now, we will do better to remain acquaintances. God forbid we become friendly." His hands flatten on the kitchen island, like he needs to cool them down. He has nice hands, too; big, long-fingered, veiny. Will swallows and tries not to imagine what it would feel like to have them on his skin.

"I'd rather keep things professional," Will says tightly, folding his arms across his chest.

"Or we could socialize, like adults. I'm sure there are cases where soulmates, or mortal enemies, have managed the occasional truce. There's no implicit romantic or sexual connotations to that dynamic."

Will snorts. "Do you even hear yourself?" he asks, but can't fight the urge to smile, especially when Hannibal's eyes meet his, growing warm. They're dark, he notes, a particular blend of brown and red and whiskey-gold.

"I've always heard myself," Hannibal replies with a teasing smile, startling a laugh out of Will. "Now, shall we sit? Everything is ready; I'll open the wine and bring it to you. The dining room is through that door." He nods to behind Will, and Will goes, knowing an unspoken command when he gets one.

Hannibal's dining room is just as tastefully opulent as the rest of the house. The table is huge, easily able to accommodate twelve, the centerpiece an arrangement of purple flowers around a pair of antlers. There are more along the wall, above the fireplace, framing a graphic picture of a woman laying with a swan.

His brow rises, and he takes a seat facing the door, at the left of the head of the table, where a place has been set. He smiles, inwardly appreciating Hannibal's foresight in putting him with his back to the wall, so that he can see Hannibal coming, since he can't hear.

He enters soon after, a plate in each hand, and sets them down with a smile, retreating to fetch the wine. Will breathes in deeply, mouth watering at the scent and sight of the thick slices of pork on his plate, rings with an artful dollop of bright red sauce, a few stalks of asparagus and pureed carrots flanking the edge of the plate, flecks of cinnamon visible in the bright orange mush that gives it sweetness.

Hannibal comes back with two glasses and the wine in a decanter. He sets the glasses down and pours a generous offering, and Will huffs, resisting the urge to make a joke about Hannibal getting him drunk. "Normally pork is paired with white wine," Hannibal tells him, "but I figure tonight we can make an exception."

Will smiles, and takes his glass once it's set down, fingers cradling the bowl as he brings it to his lips and takes a sip. It's thick, tastes of berries to hide the tannins, but it's good. Hannibal sits with a sigh, soundless for the rest. Will cannot hear his chair creak, nor the brush of his fingers as he takes up his knife and fork.

He presses his lips together. He wants to hear – he wants to know what it sounds like when he's not all alone. To go home to his dogs, and listen to them huff and breathe and snort at each other. His animals, like most that regularly interact with humans, have evolved prioritizing visual cues over sound. Will is sure they bark, but they don't do that to get his attention; they'll nose at his knee or lick his hands or otherwise bodily shove at him to get his attention when they need it.

He hasn't heard a dog bark since he was a teenager. He hasn't heard _anything_ since he was a teenager, except now, Hannibal's voice. His nice, low, accented voice. Will's chest hurts.

"You can hear," he says. He's already said it before. Hannibal eyes him, and gives a soft hum of acknowledgement. "You met your first Mark when you were…. How old were you?"

Hannibal's eyes grow distant, lift to the left where memory lies. "I was thirteen or fourteen," he murmurs. There's a nerve, there, in danger of being struck, buried in the evenness of his voice. He purses his lips and lowers his eyes to the meal again. "It was, thankfully, a very brief meeting. But it left no doubt in my mind which side of nature's coin he sat upon."

Will frowns. Granted, he's never met the Ripper in person, but he would find it very difficult to know him as a mortal enemy on sight. Unless he was caught red-handed. Maybe not even then. The idea of simply looking at someone, meeting them, and _knowing_ what they were is foreign to him despite what all the poets and storytellers say.

He clears his throat, drawing Hannibal's attention, but doesn't press. For Hannibal to be so certain, he's sure it wouldn't be a pleasant topic of conversation for dinner. Their first not-date. "So you never went deaf," he says instead, remembering Hannibal's other comment.

Hannibal shakes his head. "No. Of course, I suffered the same person-specific hearing loss everyone does. But the rest of the world remained audible to me."

Will wets his lips. "What's it like?"

"There's an easy way to find out, Will," Hannibal says with a smile. He doesn't reach, but it's clear if Will were to attempt touching him, he would be eagerly welcomed.

Will shakes his head.

Hannibal sighs. "Your reluctance to, as people say, 'seal the deal' has me frightfully curious, I must admit," he says. His knife is abandoned, replaced with his glass, as he takes a drink of wine. Will has nothing to say to that, he tries to focus on eating. The food really is fantastic, a swell of flavors that all stand out, unique and yet complimentary. He imagines that's how sound feels to those that can experience it. Music, he remembers, though it was little more than his father's mix tapes back when he was a kid. The stereotypical old man with a banjo on the front porch who the children called a murderer and a creep. The hazy sunset song of buzzes and chitters of the swamp.

"Your eagerness is rushed," Will counters. "For all you know I'm your real enemy."

Hannibal's eyes gleam in the low light, his smile makes them look narrower than they are. Calculating; Will imagines this is how mice feel in the sights of a cat. All he's missing is a lazily twitching tail.

"That would be a fun trick," Hannibal says. "God does so enjoy his little games."

"You religious?" Will asks, brow arching. "I won't judge."

"Religion implies structure, routine, and faith. I'll admit I dedicate a lot of my attention to all three." Will tilts his head, frowning at that. "I subscribe to an ideology, that every action in the world creates an equal and opposite reaction; that there are acts punished, and acts rewarded. That this task might fall to an all-knowing deity is…less important."

"So you, what, worship at the altar of physics?" Will teases, though he feels the joke fall somewhat flat.

"Miracles merely explain what science can't. Take our species, for example – we have evolved, for a purpose I'm sure made sense at the time, to wear the names of our perfect mates on our skin. And our truest enemies. We are not allowed to know which is which; must merely perform deductions, and go with our instincts. It's a rather chaotic arrangement, wouldn't you agree?"

Will nods, unable to stop himself rubbing his thumb over his sleeve, where the Ripper's name lies.

"On top of that, our selective deafness. Is it meant to foster intimacy with our closest match? Why then, can we hear our enemies as well?" Hannibal smiles. "Have you ever thought about it, Will?"

"Probably more than I should," Will admits, mouth dry. He wets it with wine, and without a word, Hannibal gathers his glass and refills it. Will swallows back the protest; it would have been half-hearted at best. "I don't think the modern world suits soulmates as much as it used to."

"Oh?"

Will hums, and takes another drink. The wine tastes sweeter, somehow. "It made sense, back then," he says. "You had to know who had your back, who would be there for you through all of it. Now people are…less isolated."

Hannibal's head tilts. "Were your parents soulmates?"

"I hope not," Will mutters, bitterness coloring his voice before he can calm it.

Hannibal hums. "An unhappy outcome. I apologize; I didn't mean to pry."

"Didn't you?" Will challenges, though he's smiling. Just a little. "Can't shut it off, can you?"

Hannibal gives Will a small, almost sheepish smile, and a slight dip of his head. No, can't shut it off. Neither can Will. Maybe they're destined to tear each other to pieces.

"As I said before, Will, if you truly have no desire to embrace every potential aspect of our relationship, then I will not force you. But, with respect to honesty, there is no doubt in my mind that you are not my enemy."

He sounds wistful.

"I don't think you're my enemy either," Will admits. "I don't want you to be, at least."

Hannibal's eyes flash, another intrigued gleam coming to them. "May I ask what the other name is, on your arm?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Hannibal's eyes narrow, a playful smile tugging at his lips. A ripple of static running down the cat's back as it prepares to lunge. "Perhaps some other time," he says gently. "Once we've gotten to know each other better."

"It can't be as bad as that," Will replies.

"No, I don't believe it is. Whatever name you're hiding, I'm sure there's a reason." Hannibal makes another thoughtful sound, and straightens in his seat, taking his knife back up and slicing another piece of meat free, edging the meat with a lump of carrots.

Will doesn't like how dismissive he sounds. He doesn't like how there's a hollowness in his chest that pulses in time with his heartbeat, desperate for Hannibal's approval. He doesn't like how his own tongue feels sharp, ready to fling inciting barbs of his own.

"I meant what I said in Jack's office; I didn't know you were one of my Marks, and now that I do, I cannot in good conscience perform the evaluations Jack wished of me." Hannibal's eyes meet Will's, gaze as heavy as stone. "I have no desire to do anything that might sully your perception of me."

"Sounds like the ball's in my court, then," Will answers, throat dry. He resists the urge to take another drink; he still has to drive home, after all, and his head feels fuzzy. From more than just the wine's effects.

Hannibal merely smiles, and Will's hands feel like they're on fire.


	2. Chapter 2

He put her in the middle of a Goddamn field. Stripped naked and mounted on a stag's head. Will's stomach clenches with a vitriolic anger when he first sees her, her long hair teased into a gentle waterfall by the breeze, carrying to him the scent of her corpse, just beginning to rot. Or maybe that's the smell of the stag's head. It looks like the animal was partially preserved, probably to allow for transport. Killed before she was.

He feels a touch on his arm and turns to see Beverly, her brow creased and her eyes almost black with aggravation. His head tilts, and she blows out a breath and signs to him; "You asshole! I know you can hear me. Don't ignore me."

His frown deepens. "I can't hear you," he replies, as her eyes fall to watch his hands.

Her brow ticks up at the corner, her head tilts. "That's bullshit. Everyone's talking about how you found your soulmate – Lecter, right? So you can hear."

"No," Will signs again. "I really can't."

Her frown deepens. "What do you mean, you can't? It's not…was it a fluke or something?" Her eyes widen. "Is he your enemy?"

Will sighs, turning away from her. No, he's sure Hannibal is not his enemy. The man is at the crime scene, with him, standing next to Jack and watching Will the same way a mother hen might keep a close eye on her chicks. His stance, while not markedly defensive nor angled towards Will, is attentive. Will has felt Hannibal's eyes on him since he arrived on the scene.

He shakes his head, his eyes on the girl. Beverly is forgotten as he approaches her, his fingers twitching by his sides. Inside his head, the mindset of the Shrike screeches in horror at the sight of her. What a _waste_. She was so beautiful, so perfect. She was perfect. She was meant to be honored and loved and adored, Will's knees feel like they aren't his own. He wants to fall to them, to feel the chilliness of the Earth that was so lucky to receive her blood and, and he's thirsty. He's hungry. But she smells of rot and the meat has gone bad.

Whoever did this is a monster. There's no two ways about it. Unevolved, _unworthy_ , he didn't even -.

"Did he…." His fingers curl, he sucks in a shaky breath and signs back to Beverly, his eyes unwavering. "Did he take anything from her?"

He's seen the signs for 'We have to wait for the lab' often enough to recognize it in his periphery.

"It's hard to tell, what with the horns and everything," Brian adds, rising from his crouch, camera in hand from taking pictures of where the stag's horns have penetrated her. His camera swishes around his neck while he signs and the flare of sunlight on the open lens makes Will wince. Exposure, too exposed. There's no room for worship in the middle of a barren, open field. This is not the hallowed hall, where the Shrike takes and consumes his other kills. There is no thorn on which to proudly display her.

His upper lips curls back. He looks away, and his eyes gravitate towards Hannibal. Linger there, like a line caught on a stick in the river. Tugging. Hannibal tilts his head, his weight shifting, eager to approach Will. All it would take is a word from Will – a real word, called out across the expanse. Or maybe just a twitch of Will's chin.

He turns away again, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his bottle of aspirin, taking two dry. His head hurts.

"I've been thinking about what you said."

They're eating in the early hours, a meal of Hannibal's making, Will in boxers and a t-shirt and a hastily-added sweater to hide his arms, because he didn't expect visitors so early, Hannibal in the same suits he always wears. Will has come to expect that fine dress, now. His fingers ache, wanting to touch. He wants to feel the heat of human life beneath the fabric. Wants to find out if it's coarse or soft as silk. Wants to feel how the muscles in Hannibal's arms and chest press back against him when he tries.

Hannibal eyes him. The dawn light makes his edges look so much softer. "What did I say?" he asks. He tends to answer Will's offhand comments with a question. Specifics, before diving in. He will not jump into the water before testing the temperature – Will admires his restraint, and his dedication to the uncovering of information. He would have made a good cop.

"Why we evolved the way we do," Will replies. The scramble is thick and steaming hot and the chili flakes burn the roof of his mouth. It's delicious, the meat salty and with a hint of maple. He takes another bite and feels warm all over when Hannibal gives him an approving smile, an eager light in his eyes at Will's chosen topic of conversation. "It's connection. We are all alone in the big wide world, but our Marks…." He swallows. "The person who can give us the greatest love, and cause us the greatest harm. It's good to know who those people are, even if we can't tell from the offset which is which."

"Do you crave connection, Will?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Don't we all?"

Hannibal hums, eyes dipping down for a moment to his meal. "Yes," he says quietly. The way he says it strikes Will's stomach and makes his mouth feel so flooded. "This killer, then, do you think he craves the same? Is that what he's seeking, in these girls?"

"I think he's…channeling that desire into them, yes," Will murmurs, feeling the truth of the words even as he says them. "He worships them. He loves them, so much it hurts him, so much that he has to…to own them. To take them and make them in his image."

Hannibal's lips purse. "Do you think he's having sex with them?"

Will blanches. "No," he snaps, feeling a visceral tug of _wrongness_ in his chest, a flutter of wings like a bird alighting on a thorn. There had been no signs of sexual assault on the girl in the field, and even if there were other bodies to test, he knows they would all be the same. "No. It's deeper than that."

"Sex is not shallow," Hannibal argues gently. Before Will can reply, he adds, "But I see your point. Whatever he's craving, it isn't something that can be sated with physical intimacy."

Will nods, and Hannibal spears another bite of food on his fork. Strange, he thinks; the way Hannibal's tongue curls around the word. 'Intimacy'. Eating is intimate; sharing food he made. A piece of himself put into an offering that Will can take or leave as he wishes. A way to touch and heat his insides when Will won't allow him to anywhere else.

He watches Hannibal eat his bite, hears him say; "What about the girl yesterday, then?"

Will scoffs. "That wasn't him," he replies, and turns his face away to the shrouded window. Hannibal's eyes are on him, heavy enough to be physical, making Will press his lips together and huff a breath. "That was…petulant. The equivalent of smearing feces on a wall. It was childish. Grotesque."

Hannibal's eyes flash, his head tilts, intrigue changing the set of his mouth into a smooth line. "Two words not commonly used to describe the same thing," he says, too-lightly. Will nods. "Jack seems to think they're the same killer. The victim profile is the same. The hunting motif." Will's face must show something, for Hannibal's smile turns wide and amused, showing the edges of his teeth. "Is it only grotesque when the killer finally has something to show you?"

Will snarls, shakes his head stubbornly. "There's no honor in butchering a girl and leaving her like a carcass for the maggots to find," he hisses.

But he cannot deny he felt something, looking at her. Not the Shrike – the Shrike recoiled in horror and refused to look at her, wept at the waste and the loss. No, something else, something that made the skin of Will's inner arm burn. He flexes his wrist, rolling it. It's not the first time he's felt it before – the Ripper's kills, infrequent as they are, whenever he sees them, he knows it's him the second he does. It's another line, caught in a snarling tangle.

Hannibal notices the motion, of course. He hums. "Does your Mark bother you often?" he asks, too-lightly again.

Will presses his lips together. "It hurts, sometimes," he replies. "The…the one that's not you."

Hannibal's eyes soften, just a little at the corners. "I'm glad I don't cause you pain."

Will can't help smiling. Hannibal sounds so charmingly sincere when he says things like that. "Not physical, no," he says. Hannibal blinks at him. "It…. It's like an ache, sometimes, around you. I imagine it's those instincts you keep talking about. An insatiable desire to reach out and see if anything will reach back."

"But you don't want to," Hannibal finishes.

"It's not that I don't want to," Will argues. "There are two possibilities. You're my mate, or you aren't. I can't…risk finding out that you aren't."

Hannibal considers him, and gives a shallow nod of acquiescence. "I suppose it is possible that you are my mate, but I am your enemy. A cruel trick of God, but He is so fond of them." He gives Will a small, easy smile. "As I said before, Will; if you don't want to hear again, if you never want to find out, I will not force you."

"Right," Will huffs. "You're not losing anything. You can hear."

Hannibal nods. "Yes. I can. Though I'd argue there are added benefits to having your mate than just background noise." He looks down, wets his lips. "Connection, like you said."

"I want it to be you, Hannibal. I really, really do. But if you're not…."

"I must admit, Will, curiosity is eating me alive." Will laughs, he can't help it. "I cannot fathom what your other Mark must be, for you to be so afraid of finding out for certain which is which." Will swallows, looking down. "Is it someone you know?"

Will bites his lower lip. "I'd argue I know him better than anyone," he murmurs.

Hannibal's eyes flash. He leans forward. "So you know who it is. This person."

"That's a loaded question."

"Yes," Hannibal says. His gaze doesn't waver, not for a second. Will flushes under the heat of it, the weight of it. He shifts in his chair and resists the urge to scratch at the Ripper's name below his sleeve. It's burning into him, he can feel it like pins and needles – not like how it does when it changes, but like touching a too-hot stove. Seeping, blistering his skin. It hurts, it _hurts_ -.

His head hurts, too. Will rises suddenly, going to his bag and searching for his aspirin.

He doesn't hear Hannibal's chair move, of course, but he feels the change in the air. Is suddenly so aware of heat at his back when he straightens. He turns his head, eyeing Hannibal from his periphery, swallows loudly, knuckles white around the bottle.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs, and Will lifts his chin. "I hope you won't read too deeply into my next question, but I must ask." Will turns, meets his eyes. They're standing close enough that he can smell the coffee and food on Hannibal's exhale, warmth emanating from him like the promise of a roaring fire. It's hard to breathe when Hannibal is this close.

Hannibal looks down at his hidden arm, that burns so hotly it's a wonder Will's flesh doesn't melt from his bones. "Should I be threatened by this other name?"

Will can't help the ugly laugh he lets out. "Define 'threatened'."

Hannibal's eyes flash. "Is there a possibility, however small, that this other person you wear on your skin…. That you might want them to be your mate. At any point, in any future." Will sucks in a breath. "Would he make you happy?"

Will's throat goes tight. He closes his eyes, thinking of the Ripper. This nameless, faceless, monstrous man, who creates such evocative displays. Will can picture every one of his kills with perfect clarity, see every incision made, feel how skin parts under his knife like tissue paper. Soaks himself in the heat of fresh blood. Feels satisfaction, victory, evolution. The Ripper's kills are like nothing he's ever seen before.

"I want to tell you 'No'," Will admits. "But I can't."

He dares to open his eyes again, maybe to see Hannibal retreating from him, or to find his expression placid to hide a deep wound in his gaze. He finds neither; instead, Hannibal looks at him with such gentleness, such open and fierce ardor, Will can't breathe all over again.

"Then perhaps," Hannibal suggests gently, "we owe it to ourselves to know who might, one day, threaten our happiness."

He talks like they're already mated, like they've felt each other's skin and shared breath and homesteads, like there is a pocket of the universe built entirely and solely for them. Will's head, his arm, hurts so bad his vision is greying at the edges, and he manages to open the bottle and down two more pills dry.

"Make an enemy of my mate, and a mistress of my enemy," he says, the words hardly forming, they're said so shakily and quietly. "I don't want to lose this."

"It's a matter of faith," Hannibal agrees. Will turns to face him fully. "You must put faith in the assurance that I am, in fact, your mate. You must trust in the idea that this other person is not. And you must hope that my potential revulsion at the other name is not equal to my attraction to you. That the second can override the first."

He swallows. Hannibal doesn't look like the kind of person that experiences doubt. "Do you think it's possible?" he whispers.

At that, Hannibal smiles. "I'd like to think there is very little that can shock me now." His eyes drop, and the sheer amount of open want that passes behind his eyes makes Will's breath catch. It's cruel, he's so fucking _cruel_ to make Hannibal wait like this.

It's now or never. Or maybe there never was a 'never'. There is something about being all alone in a room with Hannibal that feels inevitable. If anyone can undo thirty years of repression, of fear, of skin growing white and too-soft beneath casts and armbands and hidden away under long sleeves, Will supposes his soulmate would be that person.

"Promise me something," he whispers.

Hannibal doesn't say 'Anything', but he might as well have dug the words into Will's skin with his own teeth. "Yes?"

"If…. If this is a deal-breaker, just walk away," Will says. "Don't touch me. Don't let me hear. We'll just leave each other alone and, and that'll be that."

Hannibal gravitates closer, a shard of glass just waiting to hit something soft and yielding. It's going to hurt when they collide, Will knows it's going to hurt. It's going to hurt _wonderfully._

Hannibal says nothing, and it's a mercy. In the vast void of silence, Will's heart is a steady pulse in his ears, his lungs crackling dry around nothing. He's hollow and empty and maybe that means shattering will hurt less.

It would certainly be less messy.

He grits his teeth, and hauls both his sleeves up, revealing his forearms. One of them notably skinnier and weaker than the other, paler, the Ripper's name etched with the same elegant cursive as Hannibal's name. He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Hannibal's face.

Then, so softly, to vastly wildly _rawly_ quiet; "Oh."

Will doesn't move. Doesn't open his eyes. He can't bear to. "Just let me know if you're going to leave," he whispers. Because he won't hear the door.

"Will," Hannibal says, still so quiet, so gentle, how can something so gentle cause him to ache so fucking badly? He can feel warmth, a touch hovering just shy of his skin. " _Will_. Look at me."

He obeys.

Hannibal's hand is so close to his arm Will instinctively flinches, biting his lower lip, fists clenched. Hannibal leans closer to him, unwilling to put any extra inch between them. They're so close, _so close_ , it would be so easy….

Hannibal's eyes are black, the light at his back and casting him in soft shadows. "I have no doubts," he says. Will hadn't realized how badly he'd needed to hear that out loud. His breath escapes him so hard it sounds like a whimper. "It's always been him? The Ripper?"

Will swallows, and rasps, "It's been you longer." Because it has. The Ripper was a number and then he was a foreign word and gibberish and now he's a monster, and Hannibal is constant. He's unmoving stone and relentless warmth. He looks down at his arm, at the Ripper's name spread across it. It seems bigger than normal, somehow, the letters thicker, stretching wider like it's trying to take him over. He fights the urge to pull his sleeves down again.

Hannibal presses his lips together, lets out a slow, long breath, and holds out his hand.

"Leap of faith," he says, with a small smile.

Will's eyes burn, his headache easing to a tender, dull throb, as he puts his hand in Hannibal's, and their fingers lace.

Oh, Will is _fascinating_. Hannibal could have never imagined meeting a man so utterly enthralling, so absolute in his madness. He's beautiful and wretched and the slide of his palm against Hannibal's own is like the sweetest, most nourishing meal.

Hannibal has studied the effects of a mating union in patients, read case studies and seen evidence of it first-hand, knows intimately the heat and rightness that comes with touching an enemy. The Marks do not lie, they cannot lie. And Will wears both his name and his alter ego on his skin.

Will is perfect for him, every facet. There is no man who will know him as deeply as this one.

Will gasps, lashes fluttering, expression going slack. Finally, the lines around his eyes, the clench of his jaw, the upward tension of his shoulders all melt away, shedding doubts and years as easily as frost in warm summer sun. Hannibal steps closer, touches his thumb around the '-er' of the Ripper's name and curls his fingers around his wrist so Will cannot jerk away.

He doesn't. Doesn't even try. He looks up and meets Hannibal's eyes and gives him such an open, startled look of hope. It trickles in like sand through an hourglass, ticking them down to the inevitability of their perfect union.

It seems natural to step closer, to touch and touch and keep touching. Hannibal's nose meets the tip of Will's. The curls of Will's fringe tickle his forehead. His exhale, the spiciness of the chilis Hannibal fed him, the sweet meat, the coffee, finds its home inside Hannibal's mouth.

Will closes the final inch, tilts his head and their lips meet, Will's parting immediately to let Hannibal's searching tongue inside. A shiver runs through him and Hannibal lets out a growl of his own, pulls Will's free hand to his waist and relishes the way Will's fingers curl and bunch up the side of his jacket.

The heat builds with every delicate shiver, every soft gasp. Will kisses like a starving man, moans harsh and _loud_ when Hannibal's newly-freed hand curls in his hair and settles on the back of his neck. Their first kiss deepens, only stops for a breath before melting into the second, and then a third crests right after it.

It is probably telling that Hannibal cannot equate this feeling to anything but hunger; a deep-seated, ravenous need that demands closer, closer, _more_. Will's eyes are closed, the flush on his cheeks begs to be touched and Hannibal does, lifts their folded hands so he can feel the heat of Will's skin against his knuckles. His arm tingles with pins and needles, Will's name howling in victory; _At last, at last, I've found you._

Will clings to him, arches closer, dips his hand under Hannibal's jacket and tugs his shirt free of his suit pants so he can touch bare skin, the warmth of him like a soothing balm to every hurt Hannibal never knew he had.

Finally their burning lungs cannot be ignored a second longer. Foreheads butted together, Will gasps, sucks in a heavy breath, lets it out in a thick laugh. His laugh is so lovely; Hannibal could happily compose symphonies of sounds Will has made, and finds himself hungry to draw more from him. Even if none of the rest of the world can hear him, Will deserves to be heard.

"You're still here," he whispers, soft with disbelief.

Hannibal smiles, gently brushes his thumb over Will's cheek. "Always," he replies. Will's lashes are wet. His eyes look so much brighter with water in them. He half-expects Will to ask to see his enemy name, now, and is prepared to explain why Jack Crawford's name means nothing. It would be easy; Hannibal can say his Marks are petty things, enemies come and go. He can say that it is so much less consequential than the Ripper's name.

But Will doesn't ask. Maybe he simply doesn't care.

Will meets his eyes again. Blinks, and there passes behind them a flicker of some nameless, shapeless shadow. They widen, and he takes a step back, but clings to Hannibal's hand and his side, telling Hannibal it's not because of him.

"Oh," he breathes, heavy with understanding.

Hannibal's head tilts.

"Connection," Will says. He bites his lower lip, brow creasing. Hannibal can't deny himself the pleasure of kissing the little line. Will's entire body shivers with pleasure and he pushes closer again, like an animal so-long denied affection, now starving for it. "That's -. That's what it is."

"What do you mean?"

"The Shrike," Will whispers. "It's…. It's hunger. Does it feel like hunger to you?"

 _Unending, gnawing, yes_. "Of a sort," Hannibal replies. "A desire for closeness."

"Intimacy," Will echoes with another nod. "Like…consumption."

This time, it is Hannibal who shivers. The idea of Will consuming him is delightful. Devouring Will in turn, equally so.

He nudges his nose to Will's hair, breathes him in. Will seems helpless to resist the urge himself; he kneads at Hannibal's flank and his fingers flex and curl in rhythm between Hannibal's, his breathing slow, matched to his. Already syncing, their bodies figuring out each other's rhythms and compelled to mimic.

Will pulls back with an apologetic grimace. "I need to talk to Jack," he says.

Hannibal nods. "Would you like some company?"

"Yes," Will replies, without hesitation. He wets his lips, adds; "Please."

"Of course," Hannibal murmurs, and kisses Will's pink cheek. "I'll let you get dressed. I'll be outside."

Will smiles. He has a lovely smile, too, when he does it like that. Dimpled and fanged and wide. He tugs Hannibal closer for one more kiss, makes it linger, long, long, slow and sweet and utterly damning for how breathless and _hungry_ Hannibal feels when they part.

"See you in a minute," Will says, and Hannibal nods again. They part reluctantly, a slow-drag that ends with an uncomfortable rip. Hannibal's chest feels hollow, and he wonders if Will feels it, too.

Sees his eyes, and knows he does.

He leaves Will's motel room, hearing the door close behind him. Hears Will laughing, startled, because now he can hear it, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new raaaaaating~~~~~~~

There is so much sound in the world. The crush of feet on dew-wet grass, the rush of wind around him as it tickles under their arms and the backs of their necks. Hannibal's car purrs, and he has a radio station playing a chorus of soft violins. Will doesn't know how to contain it all – it's as jarring as it was waking up on his sixteenth birthday no longer able to hear. Everyone knows it's coming, there are psych courses and practices dedicated solely to helping people who feel lost without the ability to hear, and Will wonders, absently, if there are the same for those who have found their mate or enemy and suddenly can hear so much all over again.

His fingers knead restlessly on his thighs, listening to the drag of nails against cotton, the soft crackle of wheels over gravel and pavement. He rolls the window down, and hears a dog barking as they pass by a park on the way to Jack. Listens to the laughter of the wind as it worms its way into the car.

Above them, an eagle caws, and Will's breath catches at the sound of it.

Beside him, Hannibal has been silent. He welcomed Will with a smile and open arms when Will emerged from his hotel room, dressed and ready to go meet Jack. He held the door for Will to get into his car, the creak of metal startling in its volume. The growl of the suspension under his weight. The chitter of the engine starting, and then roaring to life.

Will's hands burn, they ache, like he's just put both palms to a slightly too-hot stove. He's not in pain, but there's a pulse of tenderness in his palms in time with his racing heart. He flicks at the buttons of his coat just to hear the plastic sound against his nails. He rolls the window back up when it becomes too much for him.

Hannibal hums in sympathy, and turns the radio down as well. "It's an adjustment," he says kindly. Will nods, absentmindedly dragging his heels along the footwell to hear the brush of fabric against his shoes. "I am lucky never to have felt the true absence of sound."

"There's so much of it," Will murmurs, and looks up through the windshield towards the morning sun. "I know it doesn't, I remember that it doesn't, but I kind of expected the sun to make a noise."

"Technically, it does," Hannibal replies, smiling. "We are just too far away, and in the vacuum of space, it cannot reach us."

Will hums. It's such a strange evolutionary trick for them to have done this as a species. He can't help wondering what the Ripper's voice sounds like; if it will be pleasant, and low. A killer like him has to be charming, there's no other way he'd get so close to his victims.

He drops his gaze and rubs his thumb over his sleeve, sighing through his nose.

"Does it still hurt?" Hannibal murmurs. Of course he noticed.

Will shakes his head. Pain isn't the right word for what he's feeling; it's urgent, and needy, a desperate howling in his stomach of _not enough_. Now that he has seen one side of the curtain, he needs to peek through to the other. His mate is here, sitting so close, and yet Will still feels not quite complete.

He curls his fingers into a fist, and stamps down the thoughts as viciously as he's able.

He had texted Jack while he was getting dressed, to arrange a rendezvous point. Jack had set up a station with the local P.D., as is often protocol when the FBI swoop in to come save the day. They're heading to the station now, and Will doesn't like the thought of so many people, but it's a necessary evil with this kind of work.

"Hannibal," he says, both in a need to distract himself and because he is desperate to know the answer; "What happens now?"

Hannibal hums curiously. "What do you mean?"

A question with a question. Will smiles. "I mean…. Well, we're mates. That…implies certain steps in the future." He lifts his gaze from his arm to peer at the side of Hannibal's face. "Are you going to expect us to move in together? Should we, I don't know, go on an actual date? I -." He laughs, sheepishly, lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "I'm kind of flying blind here."

"I would never expect you to sacrifice your independence, nor do I expect us to rush into anything," Hannibal replies lightly. But of course, this is the same man who has already made it perfectly clear that he is attracted and attached to Will, who spoke like they were mated before they even touched, who invited a savage dog with raised hackles and bared teeth to dinner.

Will huffs. "I'd like you to give me your honest answer, not just the one you think I want to hear."

Hannibal is silent, for a moment. Will startles at the sudden clicking of his turn signal as he comes to a light and merges into the turn lane. They stop, since it's red, and Hannibal shifts his weight, and turns to meet Will's gaze fully.

"My honest answer," he begins, words measured and even and sounding very well thought-out, "is that I desire nothing more than to know you. As wholly as you will allow." Will smiles when Hannibal gives a sheepish laugh of his own. "I'll admit, I have been on this Earth a long while, and though I never felt lacking in my solitude, now that I have met you, now that I know who you are, I feel…."

"Hungry," Will finishes for him.

Hannibal meets his eyes, and nods.

The light changes to green, and they drive on.

"Do you think it's like this for everyone?" Will asks. Hannibal is a doctor, a psychiatrist no less, he probably knows more about this kind of thing. "Or do you think it feels different for every person?"

"I think it must," Hannibal replies. "For some, it might be a gentle sweep into a loving embrace. For others, a steady warmth that brings comfort, even if it never becomes something romantic or sexual." He pauses, and adds, quietly; "Others still, a passionate fever. A desire to devour and merge together into one single being."

Will shivers, wets his lips. Though he thinks he already knows the answer, he asks; "What does it feel like for you?"

Hannibal's eyes are dark. He can't look away from the road, that would be unsafe, but Will feels it deeply and suddenly when he murmurs; "The latter, I think. I am…very aware of the distance between us. Angry at its existence."

Will swallows, a tremor of relief running down his spine. Of course, it makes sense that his soulmate would feel their bond as he does; a lamb cannot mutually devour, after all, nor can a snarling wolf find pleasure in gentle companionship, lest it run the risk of being tamed.

He reaches out and flattens a hand on Hannibal's thigh, feels the muscle tense and lift into his touch. He smiles, seeing Hannibal's fingers flex around the steering wheel, and his knuckles turn white.

"It's mutual," he murmurs, and Hannibal's smile is wide enough to show his teeth.

They get to the police station and Will flinches when the car turns off, other sounds suddenly rushing to him with enough force to send his ears ringing. The scent of cigarettes and instant coffee assaults him, the rush of traffic past the parking lot is like a mallet to the back of his head. He winces, covering his ears, sucking in a breath when, near them, two cops get into a car and peel away with a wail of sirens and bright-flashing lights.

"Holy shit," he breathes, and then Hannibal is there, shielding his eyes from the sun and helping to cover his ears. His hands feel so much bigger, cloud Will until all he can hear is the rush of his own pulse.

He lifts his eyes, breathing hard, and feels like an animal that's just been released back into the wild.

"Slowly." He can't hear the word, it's more like an echo underwater, but he nods, sucking in a breath as Hannibal slowly peels his fingers away, drags his touch gently down Will's red cheeks, to his jaw, down his neck. Will presses his lips together and lowers his hands, braced now for all the noise. It makes his head hurt, a pulsing knot of aggravated nerves just behind his eyes. He paws at his pocket, pulling out his bottle of aspirin.

Hannibal frowns when he takes them. "How often do you take painkillers, Will?"

"As often as I need to," Will replies, knowing immediately that it was the wrong answer. But it's the honest answer. "I get a lot of headaches."

Hannibal's frown deepens. He cups Will's nape and brings him in, and Will tenses when Hannibal's nose presses to his hair and he takes in a deep inhale.

"You did _not_ just smell me," Will mutters when Hannibal pulls away, his cheeks so red and warm he feels like he could thaw a freezer.

"I have a very keen sense of smell," Hannibal replies with an unapologetic smile. He drops his grip from Will, and Will presses his lips together to fight back the whine he wants to let out. He has to be careful with his involuntary noises, now that he's aware of someone hearing them. "Infections and diseases have a particular scent in most humans. Forgive me; it's habit."

"Any diagnosis, Doctor?" Will quips, circling him and heading towards the station.

Hannibal merely laughs, and they go through the automatic doors. There's a heater overhead blasting warm air down onto entrants, and Will looks up, blinking in surprise at the low, choking whir it lets out. So, too, the rush of the automatic doors and the slight, crisp clap of them meeting behind their backs.

Then, they are in the station proper, and Will is quickly assaulted by a cacophony of noise. Phones ringing with bright blinking lights for the non-hearing, the shuffle of papers, the loud cries and banging of hands and shoes against the holding cells. The incessant drone of conversation and the shrill beeps of fax machines.

"Jesus Christ," he says, wincing again and covering the ear away from Hannibal. He looks to him. "How the fuck do you stand it?"

"You'll get used to it," Hannibal promises with a sympathetic smile. He nods over Will's shoulder, and Will turns to spy Jack bent over a desk with a folder in front of him, frowning and writing up his report of the recent find. Will swallows, cautiously lowering his hand and bracing himself against the noise, and walks up to him, tapping his fingers in Jack's periphery to get his attention.

Jack looks up, blinking in surprise. "Oh, you're both here. Good," he signs, and gestures for them to have a seat. "What was so urgent?"

"The Shrike," Will signs back as he settles into a free chair, Hannibal perched elegantly in his own. Their knees brush and Will shivers, another pulse of heat settling low in his stomach. "Did the lab come back with anything?"

Jack's eyes are dark, and he presses his lips together. "Her kidney was missing," he signs. "It was hard to tell at first, what with all the antler wounds, but there was one consistent with organ removal."

Will sucks in a slow breath, closes his eyes, and nods. "It wasn't the Shrike, Jack," he says. "This isn't his M.O. at all. He would never have done this to her."

"Maybe he's deteriorating," Jack suggests. "They always do."

Will shakes his head, frowning. "Not like this," he says. "I think…. I think the Shrike is killing these girls because they remind him of his mate."

He can feel Hannibal's surprise, mirrored on Jack's face. Jack's head tilts. "Explain."

"It's consumption, you're not wrong about that, but he needs to devour them completely. He loves them, and wants to protect them, and the only way to do that is to keep them for himself forever. We're never going to find the other bodies – there's no honor in the way this girl was displayed and left for the crows." He knows he's right, he feels the rightness of the words as his hands go through the signs.

He feels Hannibal's eyes on the side of his face, and looks at him, briefly. "He's hungry," he signs. "The Shrike _has_ to do this. This is his compulsion, and it's absolute. He would never just take a piece."

Jack is frowning, but Hannibal's expression is almost delighted. Will has to be the luckiest son of a bitch to have a mate who isn't repulsed by what the killers say and feel, what he projects through his hands and in his head.

"So what about this girl?" Jack asks, gesturing at the file. "What changed?"

"It wasn't him," Will signs again. "This…." His upper lip curls back. There's a photo exposed, of the girl's face, pale and angelic in death. She was so beautiful, so pure and sweet and _good_ , God, _I'm sorry, darling, I'm so sorry this happened to you. This wasn't what I had planned_. "This scene was practically gift-wrapped. It's a mockery, it's… _humiliating_."

"So if you don't think it was the Shrike, Will, then who?" Jack signs. "Who would take it upon themselves to kill a girl just to prove a point?"

"Someone who knows the Shrike, perhaps?" Hannibal suggests. He doesn't speak as he signs, and Will aches at the lack of his voice. He doesn't know how he's going to ever go without it, and that's dangerous, that's so dangerous, especially for someone like him. Attachment and attraction and _fuck_ , he wants to eat Hannibal alive.

He freezes, his breath catching. That can't be his thought. It feels too real and raw and _high_.

"The Ripper," he whispers. Hannibal's eyes snap to him, his hands drop at hearing Will's voice. Will laughs, bitter and sharp, high-pitched. His head aches tenderly and he rubs both hands over his face. "The Ripper."

Of-fucking-course it's the Ripper. If he wears Will's name, it's not a huge leap to assume he's aware of Will. Will has been aware of him for years, after all, helping Jack with his hunt. And if he knows, he might know Will just found his fucking mate. The timeline matches, oh God, he'd be so angry.

He thinks of the girl, the hateful, malicious disregard with which he'd treated her body. 'If I can't have you, no one can'; the words echo in a voiceless cry across whatever additional plane exists that binds Marks together. Maybe the Ripper thinks Will is his mate. Finding out he's not, God, Will has no idea what a man like that would do.

His arm hurts, it hurts so fucking badly.

"It wasn't him," Will signs weakly, again, because there's nothing else he can do.

Jack presses his lips together, probably makes a sound, though Will can't hear it. He _does_ hear the tap of Jack's pen against his desk, and his eyes fall to it. Jack instantly goes still.

His eyes narrow, and look between them. "You can hear," he signs.

Will nods.

"Well, congratulations, I suppose," Jack signs, though there's no real pleasure on his face. Will winces, but can't look away, because Jack continues; "There was more evidence recovered from Elise Nichols' body. Traces of packing material in her wounds. We're having a team run down possible sources."

Will nods, feeling numb. He thinks if he could hear Jack's voice, it would come to him hollow, ringing.

"I'll text you when we find something," Jack finishes, and the look on his face speaks volumes. Will is to get the fuck out of the way and wait for his summons. Will nods again, pushing himself to his feet, too off-kilter and afraid to manage more than a hasty 'Later' before he's rushing out of the police station, into the blessedly cool air, the shining sun, the dull rush of traffic that is much kinder than all the shrill, piercing noises inside the station.

Hannibal's shadow appears at his side, and Will turns his head, stares at his shoes. "I feel like something terrible is about to happen," he whispers.

Hannibal's head tilts. His fingers brush, so gently it's like a static shock, along the edge of Will's. "You believe the Ripper killed the girl in the field," he says.

Will nods. It's obvious. It's so obvious.

Hannibal doesn't deny it, either. Perhaps he reached the same conclusion, or at least trusts Will's insight enough not to outright argue. "You think he followed you here?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," Will replies, his heart ticking up another beat of rhythm because hearing it phrased like that makes it so much more personal. He did, he _did_ , he came out here and showed Will what he was missing, and he's been watching, like an old shadow that is always just a little too wide out of sight. "Oh God, _fuck_."

Hannibal's fingers nudge his again, and they lace together. The warmth of him is soothing, the rush of heat Will is starting to equate with being around his mate calms him somewhat. He feels too cold, suddenly, and wants more of it; wants Hannibal's touch all over him, his hands and his mouth and his fierce, dark eyes.

Exposure, like the girl in the field. Will's stomach rolls and his jaw clenches.

"I don't care where we go, but take me away from here," he rasps.

Hannibal nods, pulling him to the car without a word. They get in and Will closes his eyes, his head in his hands as he lets the engine's purr and the soothing radio swim into his brain and make itself at home. As well as that, Hannibal's gentle exhales, the brush of his fingers along the leather steering wheel, the creak of the car as it twists and turns, accelerates and brakes.

Hannibal takes him back to the hotel, and though Will honestly doesn't know where else they could have gone, he huffs a laugh.

They exit the car, and go inside, and as soon as the door closes Hannibal wraps Will in his arms from behind, chin on his shoulder, one hand petting over his chest. It's a calming embrace, and Will swallows harshly, tilts his head to one side so he can brush his cheek against Hannibal's nose.

"I don't want you to be afraid of him, Will," Hannibal murmurs, in the same tone people say 'I won't let anything happen to you'.

But Will isn't afraid. Not in the classic kind of prey-animal fear, at least. "It's not me I'm worried about," he replies. It's almost startling, to think the Ripper capable of something as plebeian as jealousy, as longing. "But now you see what I meant when I told you to define 'threatened'."

Hannibal smiles. "Do away with the competition?" he asks, and there's a laugh in his voice, but Will's not laughing, because that's exactly what this is.

Will turns, meets his eyes. "I'm not going to let him," he says, vows, swears as fiercely as he's sworn anything. Hannibal's eyes are dark, warm and soft with affection. He touches Will's forearm, above the Ripper's name, slides his fingers up to curl loosely around the back of his elbow. Will shivers, bites his lower lip, grabs Hannibal's coat sleeve and twists.

Hannibal's head tilts, after a moment. He sighs through his nose. "Is there anything I can do calm your mind?" he asks, free hand cupping Will's face, thumb brushing tenderly over his cheek. He's so _gentle_ , he's everything the Ripper isn't. And Will doesn't know how to feel about the fact that he's…curious. He's so fucking curious, about who the Ripper is, what he looks like, how he behaves. How he might smile at the first incision, how he might relish the first surge of warm blood, the whimpers of pain, the artistry only he is capable of wielding. He is a master who thinks Will an equal and he's reaching out to touch.

"I've never been good at distracting myself," Will confesses, breathless. Hannibal is fine wine and coquettish art and soft speech. He's not visceral, wild hunger, not the rush of adrenaline and the blood-high of a predator intent on the kill.

He's safe. He's sweet. Will hates how that doesn't feel like enough.

Hannibal smiles. "Well, if you're willing, I can think of a few ways to distract you," he purrs, and Will laughs, happily accepting Hannibal's kiss, and tries not to think about how it might feel to bite down until he tastes blood. What Hannibal might do. If he might bite back.

Oh, his sweet, determined, utterly _brilliant_ Will. Of course he would pick up on the clues Hannibal so painstakingly left behind. The knowledge that his harvest, the organs he took and wove so carefully into Will's breakfast, is sitting in his beloved's stomach right now, keeping him strong, is utterly overpowering in how much it delights him.

Hannibal kisses, feels how Will shivers and arches against him, a soft gasp and a flash of his dark eyes that begs more, _more_. Hannibal will devour him, in time. Cut through the lines of red tape and forced social proprietary and bare the red-hot animal center within him. They say love is patient, and perhaps it is foolish to call this 'love', even though the marks on Will's arms tell Hannibal he is his perfect counterpart.

Hannibal can be patient. It's not impossible to think that Will reacts to their bond like an enemy rather than a mate. There is a hidden need in his eyes, a flash of violent delight that wishes to see its violent end. It's not an exact science, and he must admit Will's body is playing a particularly delicious double agent game inside him.

He's reacting to Hannibal. He will _only_ react to Hannibal. With blood and sweat and tears, by God, he's delicious. Hannibal's teeth ache with the need to feel his lovely neck between them.

Will lunges for him like a starving animal, paws at his hips and pulls Hannibal close as they kiss and kiss, saliva pooling and shared, Will's gasps the sweetest sound. Hannibal lets out a snarl of his own and Will's eyes flash, widen, and he pulls back to breathe, nostrils flared wide and shaking hands rubbing over his pink, bruised lips.

He huffs a sheepish laugh, and Hannibal wants to _rip_ the noise from his throat. "This is…definitely a good distraction."

Hannibal smiles, too wide, he's certain, but Will looks at him like there's a hollowness in him that Hannibal would fit so well. _Yes, sweet boy, let me inside_ , into his skull and his chest and between his thighs. Hannibal threads a hand through Will's hair and pulls him into another kiss, subtly herding him towards the bed until Will's calves hit it, and he collapses onto the edge.

Will gazes up at him, and Hannibal leans down, swallows the whimper Will lets out with a curl of his tongue as he presses a hand to Will's hardening cock. The scent of his arousal is like another layer of spice to gourmet meat. He's prize-winning, a show-stopper.

"May I?" he rasps.

Will swallows, nods, eyes wide. "Yeah, _please_ , fuck yes," he replies breathlessly, spreading his knees as Hannibal sinks to his own. Will fumbles with his clothes in his eagerness, and if Hannibal were feeling cruel he would force Will to deal with the fact that acknowledging the Ripper is near caused such a reaction in him. The sight of the girl may horrify the killer currently in his mind, but he knows it was a gift from the one on his skin. So lovingly wrapped, so carefully delivered.

Will shoves the halves of his slacks to one side, eases his erection from the hole in his underwear. He's lovely, the skin warm to the touch, circumcised, Hannibal notes with an absent smile. He settles on his knees at Will's feet, and Will whines, heavy and needy, paws at his hair and curls a hand at the base of Hannibal's skull as Hannibal parts his lips and licks wide up the shaft to the very tip.

Will's diet could stand improvement, the taste of his precum sharp on Hannibal's tongue. It will improve, Hannibal knows, the longer he feeds Will and betters his diet. But the _sound_ Will makes when Hannibal's tongue curls around the head, the sweet gasp, the tremble in his thighs, the way his head tilts back and he blinks at the ceiling, that more than makes up for the temporary displeasure.

Hannibal takes him into his mouth, lets Will fill him in one smooth stroke, and Will moans, _loudly,_ he doesn't know how to be quiet and Hannibal doesn't want him to learn. He tilts his head, testing how Will's cockhead feels against the roof of his mouth, the weight of it on his tongue, the rough butt of it against the back of his throat.

Delightful, all in all. Hannibal hums, pleased at his mate's eager offering. Will's fingers curl tight around the base of his skull, his other hand white-knuckled in the sheets, only going lax when Hannibal reaches out and threads his fingers through Will's. Will's grip crushes, his cock twitches when Hannibal takes him deep enough to trigger his gag reflex.

"Oh, _fuck_ , Hannibal -."

Sweet boy. He won't recognize the shape of his own carcass by the time Hannibal is through.

He swallows around Will, tongues the protruding vein and soaks Will's cock with his saliva, dipping his head in smooth, slow strokes that make Will tremble beneath him. Hannibal flattens his free hand on Will's hip, wraps his fingers in his belt loops to keep him still, to ground himself as he takes Will as deep as he can.

Next time, he'll have Will bare, spread him open and get him feverish and flushed with desire, before taking him. He will learn every noise Will makes, from the rough gasp of startled pleasure to rapturous cries of overstimulation. He will touch Will until he learns how Will sounds with tears of relief in his eyes, pierce and flood him while Will screams into his neck.

Hannibal can't help the low, animal snarl he lets out as Will pushes down on his head, stomach sinking in and hips bucking to try and get deeper. He takes it, relishes the idea of Will's control snapping just a little. The sound is affecting him more than he anticipated; he's not exactly unmoving himself. His hand shakes, fingers curling tight between Will's. His mate's pleasure feels like his own. He sucks loudly, rough and wet as Will lets him up for air, and Will moans hoarsely again as he rights his head and stares down at Hannibal, watching.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers, throaty and low and thick. "Fuck, it's so -. So loud."

It is. Wet and sloppy and unrepentantly uncouth. It's delightful. Hannibal hums and lets Will pull his head down again, cock plugging his throat. He's eager for it; he wants to feast on his beautiful, beloved mate, wants to tenderly remake him, wants Will to linger on how Hannibal looked and felt and wants him ravenous for more.

"Hannibal, I'm -." He doesn't get the words out but Hannibal is in no mood to stop. He yanks Will's hand from his head and keeps moving, lips sealed tight, swallowing as much as he can. Will whimpers, every muscle in him going tense, and he twitches in Hannibal's mouth, thickens, fills, and comes.

Hannibal swallows it all, growling at the taste as he sucks Will down and licks him when he begins to soften. Will's hands twist in his grip and he lets out such a sweet, sated sigh, the sound of it could nourish Hannibal for days.

Hannibal pulls off with one last, slow drag, sucking in a deep breath when he gets a fresh, uninhibited lungful of air. Will is panting, eyes black and cheeks red as sin. Hannibal surges to his feet and grips his hair, kissing him, feeding Will's taste back to him and Will moans, hungry, he's so hungry Hannibal feels it in his own chest.

"Let me," Will gasps, reaching for him, grabbing, pulling him close. "Please, Hannibal."

Hannibal smiles. It is tempting, it is thoroughly tempting, but the first time Will sees his bared arm should not be like this. Not when his beloved is so suspicious and on edge. The reveal should come when wine has softened his teeth and the promise of pleasure has dulled his senses, smoothed his hackles down.

Circumstances, as they so often do, come to his aid again. Will's phone vibrates violently in his pocket, making him jump, flushing as he stares down at the peek of his softened cock, his open clothes. He gives Hannibal an apologetic look and corrects his clothes, fishing out his phone.

"It's Jack," he whispers.

Hannibal nods. "We should go," he says.

Will looks up at him. Down, at where Hannibal is sure his own arousal is still painfully evident. "What about you?" he asks, brow creased guiltily.

Hannibal smiles, and is not lying when he says; "If you would like to extend our physical intimacy further, I would rather do it in one of our own homes."

Will blinks, and his cheeks color a delicate pink. "Okay," he replies, nodding. "I'll -. Okay."

Hannibal pets through his hair, and draws Will up for a kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

He's a contractor at a digging site; a pipe threader. He recently turned in his letter of resignation, but left no address to forward the remaining tax paperwork. He's a part-time hunter, who frequently will disappear for months at a time to his cabin up in the mountains to hunt his quarry and harvest every piece of flesh, bone, antler and organ to suit his needs. He is a father to a single college-aged girl.

He has her name on his inner arm.

It's probably not the first time he's touched her, so he can hear. Fathers will hold their children, after all. What must his wife think, knowing that their daughter's name is branded onto the arm of her husband? Did she neglect the girl, did she hate her?

He supposes it doesn't matter. There is blood on the kitchen floor.

Will shoots, the gunshot so loud his finger flinches and he pulls again. Garrett Jacob Hobbs falls back, a knife in his hand and a spray of blood shooting from Abigail Hobbs' neck. Will keeps shooting, until his clip goes empty, his ears ringing. The click is like the pop and cool of a car engine. 

_Easy now, darling, the charge is over._

Her choking cries feel so loud, an aftershock to the ringing in his ears from the gun – now he understands why the hearing wear protection at the gun range. It echoes like a chorus, reverberating off the walls.

She is whimpering, and Will falls to his knees and slides a hand through the blood on her neck. She fits the profile; Mall of America, pretty and young. A perfect, precious thing. Will looks at her and feels so heavy and hollow with love he wants to yank it from her chest. Wants to push his fingers into the wound on her neck and down, deeper, until he can hold her heart in his hands.

A larger, more capable grip pushes his touch away, Hannibal's hand tight around her throat to stymy the bleeding. Will trembles, the Shrike's outrage loud as a shriek in his skull, a roar of a predator seeing a rival touch his mate.

He swallows around a pained cry, his throat scraped raw like he swallowed shell casings and ash. He stares, and stares, and lifts his eyes to see Garrett Jacob Hobbs smiling at him.

"See?" he whispers. He can't move his hands to sign, but Will can read his lips well enough. Feels the words, like the Shrike is perched on his shoulder, a little bird puffed up and proud at the sight of his own offspring. "Do you see?"

Will does. She's beautiful, she's so _perfect_ , he loves her more than life itself. Feels, as he watches Garrett Jacob Hobbs bleed to death in the middle of his kitchen, such a powerful relief, choking his lungs, flooding his mouth.

He wraps a hand around the back of Hannibal's because his mate is warm and capable and strong, and he closes his eyes and pretends that's all he's holding Hannibal for. Pretends that it's not so that he can feel how Abigail convulses and chokes beneath them, gaping like a landed fish.

"I'll honor you," he whispers. He knows Hannibal hears it. Mercifully, he doesn't comment.

The paramedics don't make it in time. Abigail Hobbs dies in the presence of the only two men who could have ever loved her as purely and perfectly as they do. Will's eyes are wet as she breathes her last, he wraps his fingers between Hannibal's and pulls his sticky hand from her neck as her body goes still, and begins to cool.

She's dead, but they still try to save her. Will snarls at them, and would lunge for them, scream at them to keep her where she belongs, they can honor her here. He'll…. He needs to touch her, needs to feel every inch of her, wants to tenderly peel her skin from her body. He'll make her into soft, buttery leather, turn her stomach into a waterskin, her face into a mask he can wear when he goes deer hunting. Of her fingers and delicate bones he will make windchimes. He'll stuff pillows with her hair, or weave it into strings for a violin bow. He can make music with her. He can grind her bones to dust and bake it into sweet desserts. He can paint landscapes with the color of her iris, he has to get to them before they go clouded and grey.

He's sobbing as Hannibal holds him back, blood smeared on Will's neck as he grips him like a dog and kneels beside him on the kitchen floor. Will sobs and shakes and cries, losing sight of her as they bag her and take her away.

 _I'm so sorry, it's okay, it's okay, I'm sorry. I made a mistake, but I'll make it right_.

He's sure, whichever monster is howling in his head, neither of them meant for this to happen.

Jack's presence darkens the room, thunder and rain clouds sending the birds in to seek shelter. "Get him out of here," he signs to Hannibal, who nods and stands, pulling Will to his feet. He wraps Will in his coat, shushes him gently, leads him out the back of the house, away from the carrion eaters that are the paparazzi and curious neighbors.

"She's going to be wasted," Will chokes out, still so caught up in the love of the Shrike, the frantic fluttering of the bird's wings. He feels like he flew too hard into his own nest, speared on the thorns that kept him safe from predators. "They're not going to do it right, Hannibal, I have to stop them."

"Will." Hannibal's voice is quiet, but it cuts through everything. Like suddenly the aux cord connecting Will's brain to the rest of the world has been pulled, and he hears, feels, sees nothing that isn't Hannibal. He blinks, trying to catch his breath, trying to get a fucking grip on himself, and looks up, meeting Hannibal's dark eyes. Will has blood on his cheek from Abigail, he's smeared it on Hannibal's face, a single pink streak. Red would be such a nice color on him.

Hannibal cups his face, his red hand so gentle, feather-light and heavy and strong all at once. "She doesn't belong to you," he says quietly. Whether he's speaking to the Shrike, through Will, or not, Will can't tell. Even so, there's a cry in his skull that's outraged and loud. "You did everything you could. You found her. You found him."

He did. Yeah, he did. Maybe. It doesn't feel like he did all that much. 

Oh, but he didn't do all that much, did he? It was the Ripper who showed him what he was missing. The Ripper who so-carefully and tenderly and lovingly gift-wrapped everything wrong. The one who made Will _see_.

Inside his head, the Shrike cries out as it is delicately speared on the claw of something much larger, black and golden-eyed. And the monster swallows it with a smile.

Hannibal pets over the corner of Will's mouth with his thumb, like he must insist Will's focus, his attention, remains only on him. _Look at me. See me._

_Do you see?_

Will swallows, closes his eyes. No. He won't let the Shrike, won't let the Ripper, ruin this.

He hears the back door open but doesn't move. Whoever it is can give him a Goddamn minute. "Jack." He hears Hannibal's voice, feels the rumble of it against his cheek as he tucks his nose to Hannibal's collar and breathes him in. It is not said in greeting; Hannibal's voice is low, pressing the name to Will's hair, merely informing him that Jack is there rather than calling to the man himself. Will merely presses closer. If Hannibal has any concern or feels any aggravation at Will ruining his fine clothes with that poor girl's blood, he gives no indication. 

There's a pause, probably while Jack blinks, observes, grunts, and moves on; "I understand." Hannibal's free hand moves with the sign, Will blinks at it through low lashes, admiring the sheen of dark, dark red carved into the lines of his knuckles and dug into the furrows of his nail beds. He has such nice hands. Hands that have held someone's life in them.

Hands that, ultimately, could choose to release it, or crush it at his whim.

Will's breath catches. His hand curls into a tight fist, the one attached to the arm bearing the Ripper's name. It seems so dreadfully unfair, that his reactions to his mate and his enemy are so similar, like two sides of a coin. Hannibal has to be his mate, there's no way this need for closeness and attraction to the point of incoherence could be anything else, so what does that say about him, that thinking of how the Ripper might have cut Abigail, taken her, reformed her into something not just beautiful, but glorious - what the fuck kind of monster does that make him, to think those things and feel just as helplessly hungry?

He closes his eyes so he doesn't keep watching Hannibal's hands. The day is bright and mockingly cheerful, and his head hurts like a bitch, trying to squint in the direction of the sun. He buries his face in Hannibal's shoulder, sighs as Hannibal threads through the wet curls clinging to the nape of his neck to gently massage the base of his skull.

The back door opens and closes again, and Will hears Hannibal sigh, feels his arms and chest loosen and go lax, just a little. He smiles. "You're protective of me," he murmurs.

"Of course I am," Hannibal replies, as though there is no possible alternative. Will can't remember the last time someone was merely concerned for him, without the added weight and awkwardness of being _concerned_ for him. 

He nuzzles Hannibal's coat, fingers twitching forward to catch in the outer seams of his suit pants. He doesn't want to completely fuck up Hannibal's outfit but he's not meeting any resistance. Maybe he feels it too; an awful, relentless _need_ to be closer. 

Maybe that's why you can hear your soulmate. Because touch, sound, scent, it's all so much better with your eyes closed.

The wail of sirens makes him flinch, and Hannibal hums, lowering his mouth to kiss the arch of Will's ear. "Jack informed me that you'll need to write up a report and go through an evaluation once we're back home," he says. Will nods, tilts his head and arches his neck, enticing Hannibal to kiss. With a smile, Will feels him obey the silent command eagerly. The shiver that runs down his spine might be from the touch of Hannibal's soft mouth, or the way he purrs the word 'home', or a combination of both.

It probably says something else about him, that he just murdered a man and all he can think about is the inches of air and clothing separating them. Will hates it; he wants skin, wants heat, proud and unapologetic. Hannibal doesn't seem like the kind of man to be ashamed of anything, guilty about anything, and _God_ , what it would be like to feel like that, if only for a day. An hour, a minute.

Hannibal sighs, echoing Will's longing. He nudges their noses together and kisses Will's forehead, cupping his jaw. "Come," he commands. "We can go back to the hotel and clean up."

Will nods, in no mood to put up a fight. One of the paramedics gives them a giant black garbage bag each to cover their clothes, and another gives them hand wipes to try and get rid of the worst of the blood on their hands and faces.

Will hates the smell, lemon-crusted and bitter. He hates the shape of a body interrupting the pool of blood on the kitchen floor. Almost, it was _almost_ perfect. But it's incomplete. They are both too whole - what _good_ are they if not worth the sum of their parts? What is the point of killing an animal if you're not going to use anything from its carcass?

The Ripper would have done a better job. The saliva in Will's mouth tastes like disappointment. Thankfully, mercifully, the Shrike's wings have ceased their frantic fluttering, the bird is dead, or half-way there. He may linger, Will may find a shed feather every now and again in the hallways of his mind.

But there is something bigger living here, now, and Will wants to hunt.

Hannibal laces their fingers together once they're passable enough, and Will's eyes snap to him so suddenly he makes himself dizzy. His fingers tighten so hard the pressure of Hannibal's knuckles between his hurts.

He feels like he should say something. As Hannibal leads the way out of the house, holds up a hand to dissuade anyone approaching them, as Will winces and averts his eyes, he should say something. They might be yelling at him, he can't hear them, he can't tell, and that's blissful. There is nothing but the roar of blood in his ears, the firm grip of Hannibal in his hand.

They go to Hannibal's car and even though the outside noises are less jarring than the police station, or Will's own actions in the Hobbs house, he sighs in relief once he's enveloped in blessed silence.

Hannibal gets in on the driver side, flattens a hand on Will's thigh wide and warm, and Will shivers, violent and sudden. He aches, he didn't get to hold her heart, didn't get to rip her to pieces and give her to his mate. He shouldn't be reacting this way, he doesn't want Hannibal to realize just how fucked up he is.

He breathes in, slides his hand over Hannibal's, digs in with nails. Hannibal's fingers press in around muscle, sliding up slow enough to make Will's breath catch. His lashes flutter open, and he finds Hannibal's irises black as the sky between stars.

In silence, unending and stretched as thin as a spiderweb, Will's attention tangles and snarls. In the next moment, it lunges.

"Take me home," he breathes.

Hannibal's nostrils flare, his upper lip twitches back, an expression so quick Will had to have imagined it. 

"Gladly."

Hannibal's arm is burning.

His beautiful, wild, fierce mate. Will's eyes shine even brighter with the red on his cheek to highlight them, a tremor in his shoulders and a cautiously-blinking creature staring back out at Hannibal whenever their eyes meet.

"Take me home," Will had said, but the last word was just a paltry addition.

Hannibal's imagination is not as immersive as his beloved's - certainly not without his permission. Hannibal can and has spent hours in the walls and structures of his own mind, reliving or recalling, or simply entertaining himself. But he enters these places like he might change his clothes; Will cannot. Mindsets come to him like a tidal wave, sweeping him under, leaving him adrift and desperately reaching for something to pull him out.

Hannibal's fingers flex on Will's thigh, and he smiles as Will shivers for him. So responsive, so sweet. Hannibal wants to tear at him until there is not a single inch of Will he hasn't seen, touched, tasted. He thinks Will would let him.

He pulls up and into a parking spot outside the door to Will's motel room, and before the car is even in park Will is out of it, scrambling to his feet, rushing into his room. Hannibal follows, catches up as Will swipes the key card, opens it, bares the dust-heavy room that still smells, faintly, of Will's arousal and sweat.

Hannibal breathes it in, savoring it like fine wine. Amongst the sharper notes, a fevered sweetness that seems to be made within Will's skull, to be soothed and petted and licked from behind his teeth.

The rustle of the garbage bag draws his attention, he tilts his head to see Will peeling his off, revealing his clothes, so heavily stained they cling to him provocatively. Hannibal has never become aroused when he kills, slaughtering pigs brings him no sexual pleasure beyond whatever overlap there is between hubris and satisfaction.

But watching Will kill had been...invigorating. And that had been reflex, a gun and shock. What he might look like, how he might move, with forethought and planning and that lovely smile of anticipation.

Will tears at the clothes like they burn him, hissing when seams catch and cuffs prove, for a moment, too tight. Dog-like, he bristles at the blood in his fur, wants to wet himself down and shake himself clean.

Hannibal approaches him, takes him by the wrists and draws him to a halt with a quiet hush. Will shivers, his shirt barely clinging to his shoulders, the parted halves of it revealing his smooth chest, his soft stomach. He's pale and beautiful and oh, God above, how Hannibal could _devour_ him.

Will lifts his eyes, presses his lips together. There's something steel-lined in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers curl and settle against Hannibal's palms is particular; a choreography Hannibal has never been taught but recalls with ease.

Foreheads, then noses, then the softest brush of lips, they meet each other around warm air that reeks of iron. "Would you like to shower?" Hannibal murmurs.

Will swallows, nods, lashes low. "We need to bag the clothes." For evidence, though Hannibal hardly thinks there's much of a mystery around recent events. 

"Would you like me to leave?" Hannibal asks, though he knows even before Will's eyes flash and his angry whine escapes, what the answer will be. He smiles, cups Will's face, kisses him and relishes how Will's entire body arches, gravitates towards him.

"Don't," he begs, clinging, clutching. "Don't leave."

Never. _Never_. Hannibal will brand Will's skin, make a home for himself in the cradle of his lungs, he will never leave. It is strange that, before meeting Will, he could have never fathomed meeting someone who pulls him in so wholly, and now that Will is here, in his arms, his voice sweet and rough and low, Hannibal would rather nothing else. Let the world stop spinning, for the change in gravity would be the only thing that would tear Will from his arms.

He kisses as Will pushes beneath the garbage bag, tugs at the cut-open head hole so it rips down the middle. He is no less fierce and desperate than that morning, with the Ripper's name heavy on his tongue, eyes searching, searching.

_Can you see me, dear boy? I'm right here._

Maybe Will wants him here. Each half of him, to form the gruesome, bloody orchestra. He is half a chorus, an unfinished score, he needs Will's music to finish. He must provide the instruments, the hall, but Will….

Will, the audience, and the conductor, all in one.

The starving animal is back, gnawing on Will from the inside out, driving him to press and rut close even as Hannibal steers them towards the bathroom. Will's shirt falls to the floor. Their shoes are kicked off and discarded. Will's hands wrap around Hannibal's belt and tug so needily Hannibal's entire body trembles.

When they get into the bathroom, the cramped space brings them to not quite a halt, but a slower pace, panting into each other's mouths as they angle themselves to fit between towel rack and sink. Hannibal ends up against the counter as Will kisses him, shoving himself close like an overeager animal, threading Hannibal's belt free with a whispering drag that sends a shiver down Hannibal's spine.

Will pulls back, finally, gasping for air, his cheeks and mouth the same bruised red. His eyes, black and icy, teeth showing their edges. What a beautiful creature he is; unevolved, ascended, all at once.

Will swallows, dropping his gaze, bites his lower lip and slides his thumb, so gently, over Hannibal's wrist, above the cuff of his shirt.

"I understand if you don't want to show me," he says. Hannibal blinks. In the heat and fever of Will, he's forgotten just whose name rests upon his skin. The temporary loss of control could have been disastrous. Will pets him again, must mistake the jump in his pulse for nerves rather than surprise. "I promise I won't look."

_But if you don't look, darling, how will you see?_

"I'd like to show you," Hannibal replies, earning Will's hopeful gaze. He cups Will's face. He would have rathered turn Will dumb with pleasure, easing him through so many waves of bliss to the point of incoherency, so Will was lax and trusting and more pliant to Hannibal's excuses before showing him Jack's name.

But this Will. This one is primed all the same, hungry, a slick mess of blood and mindsets not his own. Not his own, but perfect for him; Hannibal has no doubt the Ripper sits in his skull right now, humming a lazy tune, waiting for Hannibal to bring his instruments and his halls and finish the piece for him.

He kisses Will because going another second without it seems impossible. Will's hands shake as they push at Hannibal's suit jacket, tug with growing franticness at the buttons of his vest as the possibility of touching more skin grows greater. Will sighs into his mouth when he first feels the sweat-damp skin of Hannibal's throat, down his shoulders, nails dragging through the hair on his chest.

Then, Hannibal's shirt only clings to him by the cuffs. He pulls back, forearms still covered, and bares Will's name, first. It was theorized that the Marks mimicked the handwriting of the person, though nothing has been proven definitively. Will's name is etched like a child carving their initials into a school desk, like lovers into a tree or stone. All straight lines and sharp-meeting corners, strangely thin for all the drastic angles.

Will lets out a sound, so low and rough, and Hannibal watches as tears gather in his eyes, he wraps his fingers below Hannibal's arm and brushes his thumb over the dotted 'I' in his name. The look on his face is nothing short of worship.

Their eyes meet, and Will uses his handhold to tug Hannibal in, moaning as Hannibal grips his hair and licks his mouth open, every inch of him commanding more, closer, _more_. How is it possible to exist when the other half of you is so far away?

Will's hand flattens on Hannibal's other arm. Covered, concealed. "Now or never," he murmurs, in a voice that sounds like he's telling himself an inside joke.

Hannibal breathes out, closes his eyes, presses his lips together. He tucks his fingers into the bottom of his sleeve, and tugs his shirt free, letting it pool in a wrinkled mess at his hips on the top of the bathroom counter.

Jack Crawford's font is closer to a typewriter, lacking personality, all of it strict and uniform, with no room to bend or break. Just like the man himself. The name itself is also quite large, despite being only a few letters longer than Will's, and takes up more space than Hannibal always thought was strictly necessary.

He waits, eyes closed, and then hears Will laugh, feels his gentle touch encircle his wrist. "Why were you afraid of showing me this?" he says quietly.

Hannibal frowns, and opens his eyes.

His arm is blank.

Will's eyes meet his, head tilting. "You seem surprised," he says. "Who was it?"

Hannibal's lips purse. No need to cause undue upset. "A prior colleague of mine," he says. "Before I exchanged surgery for psychiatry." His fingers flex, and he turns his hand again, as though Jack's name might have simply moved. "He was quite a bit older than me. Perhaps there is a reason his name faded."

Will snorts, the sound startlingly loud in the small space. He flushes deeper, sighs through his nose, rubs his fingers gently up Hannibal's inner arm like a pianist might brush his touch on ivory keys, too light to make a sound.

"I've never seen someone who didn't have a Mark here," he says. Even the dead have enemies and mates. Hannibal presses his lips together as something nameless and dark passes over Will's face, hides behind his eyes, peeking curiously out. "There's...an innocence to it."

Hannibal offers his wrist, as Will lifts it, kisses warm and open-mouthed across the tendon. His lashes flutter, and Hannibal has no idea how he's not starving to death.

"Will," he breathes.

Will's jaw clenches, fingers squeezing tight. His eyes meet Hannibal's, stare and stare. He tugs Hannibal close by his arm and claims his mouth in something that is more like a bite than a kiss, and sets his shaking hands to the task of removing the rest of their clothes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I offer you lovely folks porn in this trying time...

The roar of the plumbing and the splash of water hitting the bottom of the shower is loud. They stand together beneath the spray, clothes shed, bodies bared. Will paws at Hannibal's hips, clings to the meat of his thighs, kissing, kissing like he means to devour. Hannibal swallows him eagerly, relishing every sweet moan and rough growl he can pull from Will's lovely mouth as he pushes Will against the tile wall hard enough that his shoulders scrape.

He puts his hands behind them, feels the flex of powerful muscle. There's a line of scar tissue on Will's right shoulder, and he tilts his head, humming curiously.

Will meets his eyes. His irises are blue and black like an old bruise, wide-pupiled in the low light, his chest and neck colored with a pink flush, his cheek, still, with that vibrant smear of red. He's beautiful, he's the most beautiful thing Hannibal has ever seen. He could make such a feast of Will; melt his thighs from the bone, splay his chest wide open to bare his beating heart. Hannibal doesn't know what to call the sound he makes as Will wraps a strong hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in for another kiss.

Will's erection ruts against his thigh, wet and blushing red, and Hannibal's mouth goes dry. It seems like such an obvious choice, desire turning to escalation, to drop to his knees and take it in hand. Will gasps down at him, lashes fluttering as he instinctively lowers them to shield his eyes from the water. He gazes down at Hannibal like Hannibal is some nameless creature he has spent all his life trying to find.

"I want you inside me," he whispers, and Hannibal's stomach clenches with something too severe and relentless to be hunger, though he has certainly felt that. Will starves him with every kiss, makes him burn around his own emptiness with every touch.

The way Will says those words tells Hannibal he might not be talking to _just_ him. There is a creature in Will's eyes, panting and silk-soft, fur bristled. Hannibal's monster, though, is much older and much larger, and can easily claim him. Such a sweet, eager offering, how could he possibly refuse?

"Then you'll have me," Hannibal tells him, growls the words against Will's stomach. Will's muscles flex and tighten beneath his searching hands, as Hannibal drags his fingers up Will's thigh, then across, below his cock and balls, to where Will is eager and waiting for him. Will's legs spread as much as he's able while still standing.

"Not later," Will snarls, eyes flashing. "Now."

Hannibal smiles, and pets his fingers across Will's damp entrance, feels the ring of muscle clench beneath his touch. He nuzzles Will's cock and takes the head between his lips, tasting Will's bitter-salt precum. He breathes in, and groans low in his stomach.

Will smells like blood. It soaked through his knees when he knelt by Abigail's dying body, it's embedded in his palms and his thighs. Hannibal can do nothing but ravenously take his beloved mate deeper, and hopes Will doesn't realize that the scent of iron on his skin is the reason Hannibal's mouth is so wet.

Will moans weakly, tips his head back against the tile. The water coats the side of his face, drips thin, pink lines down his chest. Hannibal moves his head in slow motions, in no rush despite the urgency, as he pets his free hand up Will's chest and settles it over his racing heart.

Will paws at his hair, grips with both hands, forces his hips forward and his cock deeper into Hannibal's mouth. It twitches when Hannibal's throat muscles clench, bruising in the onslaught, and Hannibal feels the instant Will's muscles loosen in open invitation.

He slides one wet finger inside Will, hooks it, encouraging him to rock back onto his finger and then deeper into his mouth. Will's knees shake, locking, his breathing growing heavier still as Hannibal touches him and pierces him on the inside.

He wraps a hand around Hannibal's wrist. The empty one, the barren forearm. Why Jack's name disappeared, he doesn't know. Maybe there is no enemy in him now. Maybe it's because of Will, or the Shrike, or some other unknown factor in the universe. Maybe Will is so in love that the Ripper can't touch Jack anymore.

His own name, both his names, stand out dark on Will's forearms. His Ripper arm is paler, a little thinner, lacking the muscle of a limb put to the same use as its cousin. His wrist is delicate against Hannibal's own, his grip gentle. Hannibal wishes the black stain would color him, too. Being your own worst enemy is not impossible.

Will's body clenches, another powerful shiver running through him as Hannibal works in a second finger, presses in as deep as he can until he's stopped by the webbing of his fingers. It doesn't feel deep enough, and he snarls around Will's cock, taking it as deep as he can until his nose touches Will's pubic hair. Will whimpers, eyes low-lidded and searching. He presses his lips together and sighs through his nose.

"Don't stop," he begs. As if Hannibal had any intention of doing so. But it must have been meant as a warning, because not a second later, Will's mouth tightens, the corners of his eyes grow deep lines, and he gasps to the ceiling, cock twitching and then flooding Hannibal's mouth with his release. Hannibal closes his eyes, tilts his head so his tongue is free to curl around Will's cock, eagerly drinking him down.

Will's fingers tighten in his hair, tighten around his wrist. Hannibal curls his fingers inside his mate, petting just shy of that little bundle of nerves that will likely send Will crashing to the ground in his current state. He gentles his mouth, relishes how Will softens and gives for him, until he's flaccid and has nothing more to spill.

Still, Will doesn't pull him away. He's staring at Hannibal like a starving animal, and there is something dark and considering in his eyes, so curious, so awfully _eager_ to watch him. To see him. His hand gentles in Hannibal's hair, thumb petting below his ear, and then his hand slides to cup Hannibal's wet jaw.

It's such a tender motion it robs Hannibal for breath. He gasps, letting Will fall limp from his mouth, closes his eyes and nuzzles his mate's palm, kisses his pulse right over the 'r' of his own name. Will swallows, and helps him upright, and kisses him, tongue licking behind Hannibal's teeth as they share the taste of him.

"Will," he breathes, as Will drops a hand to his own neglected arousal and tightens his fist. He pulls his fingers out so he can steady himself on Will's hip.

Will hums, and says, sheepish and breathless; "You're going to take care of me, aren't you?" Hannibal is already nodding, because he will, he absolutely will. He will see Will transformed, ascended, placed on the highest pedestal only just within his reach. There is nothing – he feels the thought and knows it's true, with a fierceness that echoes from his youth – there is nothing he wouldn't do for Will's sake.

Will grips his chin, makes their eyes meet. The water has dampened and fluffed his hair, Hannibal is standing under most of the spray, splashing onto Will's chest and the rest of him like an afterthought. Will's gaze is sharp, head tilted just so, a smile that is not a smile softening the corners of his mouth.

Hannibal kisses him, because to go another moment without it feels as impossible as the last time. Will moans into his mouth, and releases his cock, fumbling with the shower lever so that the water stops flowing. They're far from impeccably clean; there is still blood in Will's hair, and Hannibal's hands are stained a light pink.

"I want to hear you," Will breathes. "Nothing else."

Hannibal can offer no protest as Will pushes the shower curtain back, his hand finding Hannibal's wrist and tugging him out. He pulls Hannibal into a kiss again, draws him close against the sink counter, and drags heavy-handed nails down his back. With his recent orgasm, Will's tongue is lazy, but the rest of him burns with eagerness, and Hannibal's patience is stretched, drawn tight, and snaps.

He throws Will against the counter, turns him and presses him against the edge of it, sharp on his hips. Will winces, but spreads his legs eagerly, planting his hands on either side of the sink. Hannibal wraps a hand through his hair, yanks his head up, and their eyes meet in the mirror.

"Watch," Hannibal snarls, not recognizing his own voice, and Will gasps, nodding eagerly. Hannibal leans in, presses his nose to Will's blood-wet hair, breathes in deeply, his eyes still on Will's. "Don't look away."

Will doesn't. Not while Hannibal wets his fingers and spreads the slick on Will's damp rim. Not while Hannibal rakes his nails through Will's wet hair and slicks himself with the half-bloodied water that comes from it. Not while Hannibal lines himself up, finds where Will is wet and eager, and pushes into him with one, slow thrust.

Will's knuckles go white, his upper lip twitches, but he doesn't look away. His body clings to Hannibal's cock like a vice, as tender and tight as the aorta around a finger. Hannibal's hand returns to his hair, he grips Will's hip to hold him steady. Will's lashes flutter, but refuse to close, as Hannibal fights his way in and settles with his hips pressed skin-to-skin against Will's ass.

Will whimpers, mouth twisting and shoulders tense with the need to keep his eyes open. He stares, unblinking, and though they were more or less the same height, Will feels, looks, so small with Hannibal behind him. Not weak, not in the slightest, but yielding, like a hand might tenderly hold a bird, like a rushing river would gently lap at the edges of rocks along its bed.

The desire to tear into Will, to mount him brutally, to bite and rip him open is almost overwhelming. It is Hannibal who breaks eye contact first, closes his eyes and pets down Will's arm, laces their fingers together on the cool bathroom counter. Will's spread eagerly for him, and he turns his head to nuzzle against Hannibal's hair.

Hannibal clenches his jaw, grabs Will's hip tightly as he rolls, a deep, satisfied sigh wrenched from his chest. "Hannibal," he whispers, and Hannibal can do little more than turn his head, seeking Will's mouth. He kisses Will passionately, drinks down his second, sated little moan, feeling how Will clenches, so tight and warm around him. " _Please_."

Hannibal is as helpless to resist as he is his body's need for air and food and sunlight. He draws back, and it's like Will's body fights him, clamping down so angrily, eagerly, only relenting when Hannibal drives back into him with enough force to make Will gasp. " _Fuck_ ," Will whispers, head dropping, arms shaking as he locks his elbows and braces himself, spreads his legs a little wider. "Fuck, baby, yeah, that's it. Harder."

Hannibal growls, releases Will's hand to grip his wrist instead. He pulls Will's arm behind him, holds it at the small of his back so that the Ripper's name is exposed, and shoves his free hand to the back of Will's neck, bending him over the sink at an angle so he misses the faucet, wet hair smeared against the mirror. Will moans, tilts his head so he can keep watching, red cheek warm against Hannibal's wrist, teeth bared.

Hannibal holds him tightly, breathing hard, sweat staining his skin. The _sounds_ Will makes…. He has never been able to hear such things before. People will always be mute for him, but he knows, feels it in his stomach, that no pretty moan or desperate cry could ever compare to Will's rough growls, his shaky, breathy little whimpers. He is a feast to Hannibal's famine, wet and warm and so sweetly offered up.

He fucks in again, building a rhythm that sends shivers of pleasure all the way down to his toes. Will arches, until he finds an angle he likes, Hannibal's cock dragging slow over his prostate until Will goes tense. His hand presses against the mirror, bracing himself, leaving a streak across the surface.

"Harder," he snaps again, and Hannibal obeys him; he can't possibly deny them both. Will's lashes flutter, threaten to close, he bites his lower lip as his muscles shiver and roll with pleasure. Hannibal knows he's not a teenager anymore, with his recent orgasm he's likely more oversensitive than anything else, but he meets every one of Hannibal's thrusts eagerly, reaches back and claws at Hannibal's hip.

"Come here," he demands, and Hannibal bends over him, slides his hand from Will's nape to his throat, Will's arm still trapped between them. He might be bruising Will's forearm with his tight grip, but there's no protest in Will's eyes or on his tongue, and he's not sure he could bring himself to be gentle now. Not now, with his beloved mate pinned beneath him, his mind and his body and his soul all Hannibal's for the taking.

Will's fingers thread through Hannibal's hair and tug. He tilts his head, showing Hannibal his pink neck, so eagerly bared. "Please, Hannibal," he moans, "talk to me."

Hannibal smiles, bares his teeth against Will's racing pulse. Their eyes meet, briefly, at the edge of the mirror. "You feel incredible, Will," he breathes, and that is certainly the truth. The feeling of Will, the sight of him, threatens to drive Hannibal mad. Never in his life has he wanted to devour someone so thoroughly. Will whines, arches to his toes, fucks back onto Hannibal's cock so that the sound of their bodies colliding is as loud as their breathing. "I have never met anyone in my life who affects me like you do."

Will swallows, and Hannibal feels the motion in his hand. He fights the urge to tighten it; Will is wild and raw, and might react like an animal to pressure at his neck. No matter how eager he is now, Hannibal would do well to exercise caution, until Will is truly his.

"I want to see and learn every facet of you," Hannibal continues, surprising himself at how genuinely he means that. Will gasps, lifting his head, tilted so Hannibal can kiss his cheek. The same cheek that still smells of Abigail's blood. Hannibal breathes it in eagerly, licks to the corner of his jaw. "Promise me you'll let me."

"I will," comes the punched-out reply. Will lets go of his hip, flattens his hand over Hannibal's, on his neck. Squeezes, so Hannibal's hand tightens. He chokes, trembling with desire, a shaking mess of warm and pink flesh, sweat slicking them together.

He whispers, raggedly; "You have to promise me the same."

Hannibal closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. Will's name burns on his arm. The idea of being _seen_ , of being utterly known by this beautiful, brilliant man, his perfect counterpart and puzzle piece, snaps the last remnant of his control. "I swear," he vows, as the coil of pleasure drags its claws down his spine, settles heavy and low in his stomach.

He must make a sound, for Will whimpers, going tense. He tilts his head up, revealing the wide span of Hannibal's hand across his throat in the mirror. Will fits into his grip so perfectly; under him, so perfectly. Inside his mouth and in the hollow of his chest and settled into the back of his skull.

Perhaps it's too soon to call it 'love', but Hannibal doesn't know what else to call it.

He stutters, presses in deep. Growls; "I'm -."

"Yes," Will gasps, nodding frantically. He reaches back to paw at Hannibal's hip, and while Hannibal releases his arm, Will keeps it pinned in place between them. "Yes. Inside me. _Please_ , Hannibal."

As always, Hannibal is helpless to resist. He comes with his teeth at Will's shoulder, grunting loudly, hips rutting tight to Will's ass he fills his beautiful, beloved mate. It's just as satisfying as feeding Will at his table; inside him, his own monster flexes its claws and purrs loud enough Hannibal cannot help echoing it, his chest pressed tight to Will's back.

Will sighs, worming his arm free so he can brace himself on the counter as Hannibal goes lax. He kisses Will's shoulder, releasing his neck, and pets down his chest. Meets his eyes in the mirror, and Will is smiling, lids low over his dark eyes.

Hannibal pulls out, growling at sudden loss of Will's warmth. Will turns and pulls him in for a kiss, both hands in his hair, propped against the counter and working a thigh between Hannibal's so they're touching as much as possible.

They part for air, Will letting out a sweet sigh, their foreheads resting together. His fingers trail idly down Hannibal's shoulders, his chest, settling at his hips.

"We need a shower," he murmurs dreamily.

Hannibal smiles, and pulls him into another kiss. "Perhaps this one will be more effective."

Will's eyes flash with mirth, and he lets Hannibal pull him back into the shower.

When they'd emerged, Will found a text from Jack and an email, giving him information for his return flight and a reminder that he will be due back in Quantico for his report and debriefing. Hannibal leaves, because he has his own bags to pack, his rental car to return, his own flight arrangements to make.

There's a bruise across his stomach from the edge of the bathroom counter. A deep, satisfied ache between his legs. His shoulder hurts from Hannibal's love bite, his throat feels ragged from making so much noise – his ears still ring, from Hannibal's sounds. He'd never imagined someone could _make_ noises like that, so deep and raw and low. Just thinking about them sends a shiver down his spine, and he bites his lower lip, staring at the ceiling.

His mind is racing.

There's something to be said for a bird's eye view. With the Shrike dead, Will has been sent plummeting to the ground, and now he's in the middle of a forest, trees pressing in on him from all sides, obscuring his view.

This is where monsters dwell.

He can't shake the look in Hannibal's eyes from his head. Dark, ravenous, a creature who looked at Will and loved what it saw. Loved it so much he had to devour it. Will understands that mindset, intimately. Has felt it echo in his own chest. To love something so much that you have to hurt it, to rip into it and consume it and keep it safe inside you….

He shifts his weight, pressing his lips together as he feels a slight trickle of Hannibal's come leaking out of him. He'll drip for days. He'd wanted it, needed it; maybe it's the Ripper in his head but it seemed like such an insult, to not take what pieces of Hannibal he could. He needs it, needs to keep his mate inside him. Hannibal is safe inside him; Will can take care of him so much better that way.

He presses his hand to the bruise on his stomach and shivers.

There's a ring of bruises around his wrists, peppered like paint the color of sunset, soft purples, a deep blue at the center. They will darken further; they will turn black. His fingers curl, and he stares at them. Hasn't looked, but wonders if there are similar marks along his throat.

Hannibal isn't far away. He's just a few doors down, in his own room, arranging his things. Will hates how far away he is, even still. He burns with the need to go to him, to touch him and hold him and wrench more of those wonderful noises from his chest.

He'll need to make Hannibal empty, so that there's room for Will. Will's own chest feels full to bursting.

Hannibal had to wear his suit pants and shirt to his room, but the rest of his clothes have been bagged. Will makes a note to turn them in to the local P.D. before he boards his flight. He can't help hoping Hannibal manages to weasel his way into the same one, so that they can be together. They're mated, after all; no self-respecting airline would dare to keep mates separated.

He aches. In a delicious, full-bellied way. He feels like he's been given a feast, but still, so hungry.

The Ripper must be hungry. It's not just Will in his own head.

Lost as he is in his own thoughts, for a moment, Will doesn't register the burning in his arm. He blinks, frowning, and sits upright, his eyes widening as he looks at his pale, undeveloped forearm where the Ripper's name, and his various aliases, have always sat. He watches, breathing hard and a cold terror spreading through his chest, as the name twists on itself like a landed fish, gasping for air.

"No," he whispers, and rubs at his arm, wincing at the bruises. The Ripper's name doesn't go still, doesn't stop moving. It twitches, and Will watches, helplessly, his eyes burning, as it starts to fade. "No, no…."

A rough, animal noise crawls from his throat, settles behind his clenched teeth, as the Ripper fades from his skin as if it was never there. He gasps, rubbing his skin red, willing it to come back. No, the Ripper can't leave him now. He can't, he can't. He's meant to be here; he's in Will's head, he should remain on his skin.

"Fuck," he breathes, shaken to the core. The name doesn't come back. No other takes its place. His arm is as barren as Hannibal's. The world narrows down to that single stretch of bare skin. How often had Will hidden that name, covered his arm and wished it would fade away, and now that it has, all he can feel is a deep, aching loss, like someone has reached into his stomach and pulled his heart out through it?

He clenches his eyes tightly shut, bares his teeth. He can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe. The Ripper is meant to be here; he belongs to Will. He should, he needs to -.

He checks his other arm. Hannibal's name is still there, in that artful cursive. Will pets his thumb over his wrist and tries to make it soothe him, but it doesn't. The only method through which a Mark changes or fades, that he knows about, is death. Of course, maybe there's a bigger enemy in Will's life, one that has yet to show himself, but that wouldn't change the Ripper's name until Will met him. And his name would replace the Ripper's, if that were the case.

His other arm remains blank.

"No," he gasps weakly, shaking his head, blinking as though doing that enough will bring his name back. Why would he abandon Will? Hasn't Will done enough? Doesn't the Ripper know how much Will admires and needs him?

He's got his nails in his forearm, digging deep furrows. The bite of pain brings him back, tunnel vision clearing somewhat as he catches his breath. His heart is racing, and he feels hollow, torn open. Unloved and unwanted.

He scrambles off the bed and pulls on a fresh set of clothes, leaves his room and runs down to Hannibal's, fist pounding on the door. He hears movement inside, thank God, thank _God_ he can hear that, and the door opens a moment later.

"He's gone," Will says, and maybe running to his mate so distraught about the absence of his enemy isn't the smartest move, but Hannibal won't abandon him. He can't. If he didn't recoil from the Ripper's name, his absence shouldn't trouble him.

Hannibal's head tilts, and Will shows him his blank arm.

"He's gone," he says again, tears in his eyes. "I don't -. I don't know what happened."

Hannibal's eyes are dark, his lips turned down in a troubled frown. He steps back, and gestures for Will to enter his room. It's laid out the same, but somehow much more _Hannibal_ than Will's room is; his luggage is standing neatly by the bed, the sheets fresh-made and untouched. No sign that he was ever even there.

"You're upset," Hannibal notes quietly.

Will nods, running his hands through his hair. He shouldn't be upset. He should be relieved. He has no excuse, so he doesn't offer one.

"Why?" Hannibal says.

Will sits on the edge of the bed heavily, looking down at his barren arm. He hates the sight of it; hates how pale and weak it is, without the Ripper's name etched into it. Hates that he hates its absence.

Hannibal comes to him and kneels in front of him, taking both of Will's hands, holding them against his chest. "Talk to me, Will," he coaxes. Will grits his teeth, turns his face away. He shouldn't be upset. Hannibal is sweet and kind and wants him. Wants him more than the Ripper does. He should be enough for Will, but Will is greedy and empty and why would the Ripper follow him out here and let Will _see_ if he was just going to disappear?

His arm begins to burn again, and Will blinks, fingers twitching in Hannibal's. He watches with wide eyes as, on his barren arm, ink spreads out like oil on water, curling from the inside of his elbow all the way down his wrist. It's larger than before, the lines thicker, and now it mimics the same handwriting that depicts Hannibal's name on his other arm.

Hannibal's eyes drop to it. It's the Ripper's name. He left just long enough for Will to lose his mind and damn himself in front of his mate, only to return, stronger and darker and larger than before. Will doesn't understand. His head hurts.

"I -."

Hannibal gives him a look that is unreadable. "It seems he can't quite let go of you just yet," he says, in a voice that Will cannot decipher. He cannot tell if Hannibal is angry, or surprised, upset or wistful. If he is sad or happy at the return of the Ripper's name on Will's arm.

Will swallows, eyes still burning with tears he couldn't let himself shed. "I felt like I'd lost him," he whispers. Hannibal's head tilts. "I'm sorry. I can't -. I can't lose him."

Hannibal nods, lets out a quiet sigh. It hurts Will to hear it; he shouldn't be telling his mate stuff like this. Hannibal has already asked him once if Will could love the Ripper like a mate. If the Ripper could, one day, threaten their happiness.

Maybe he doesn't need to. Will can do that all on his own.

"You're mine," Will hisses. He needs Hannibal to understand that. Hannibal lifts his head and Will cups his face with both hands, their eyes meeting. "You hear me? You're mine."

Hannibal smiles, and this time, he shows Will a flicker of resignation.

"But so is he," he says.

Will swallows. "I don't know whose name is on his arms," he says. "I don't know, but I don't care. _You_ , you're the one I'm choosing."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and his smile is wide enough to show his teeth. He tugs Will in by his shirt and kisses him fiercely, and Will closes his eyes, hands sliding to Hannibal's hair, gripping tight.

"Rest assured, Will," Hannibal growls when they part for air, "I will never abandon you."

Will smiles, chest tight, heart heavy. But he knows Hannibal means it. "Can I stay until you have to leave?"

"Of course," Hannibal replies with a smile. "In fact, I arranged for us to share a flight." Of course he did. "I need to return the car, but I'm ready to go. Are you packed?"

Will nods.

"Then we can leave whenever you're ready," Hannibal tells him, and kisses his forehead, hand gentle on his shoulder, squeezing. It helps, it settles Will where his own touch could not. Will stands, and Hannibal grabs his bags and follows Will out of the room. They return their keys and Will brings his bags to Hannibal's rental car, along with their bagged clothes, adding Hannibal's suit pants and shirt now that he's wearing another suit.

They bring the clothes to the police station, return the car, and head to the airport. Through it all, Hannibal is a quiet and constant presence, and while Will tries not to, he keeps checking his arm, lungs burning with anxiety.

The Ripper's name doesn't fade again. Despite himself, Will can't help but feel relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jack Skellington voice* What does it mean? What does it mean?!


	6. Chapter 6

The plane is packed, no seat spared, and they'd ended up having to check Will's carryon since there was no room for it in the overheads. Will doesn't mind. Much. There's nothing he can't live without for the five-hour flight, and without the bag taking up leg room or overhead, he's given another foot of space in which to stretch.

Hannibal not only arranged for them to take the same flight back to Baltimore, he'd even gotten them on the same _row_ , and then it was a matter of smooth-talking his way to get the guy sitting between them to swap seats, so Will is pinned by the window, Hannibal in the aisle seat, their would-be separator across the aisle in the next seat over.

Will doesn’t know if he should call it relief, because he wasn't exactly _stressed_ at the idea of Hannibal not sitting next to him – but he can't deny the soft, shaken sigh he lets out when Hannibal settles into place behind him and, without a word, laces their fingers together.

It's madness. It's addiction. Surely finding your soulmate shouldn't feel this intense, otherwise the world would stop spinning altogether. How does Jack stand being away from his mate all day? How do people manage to go through a single hour without ripping each other to pieces, because his fingers feel like claws, his teeth too sharp, and he's so aware of Hannibal's throat and how warm it is and what beautiful sounds it can make. Sounds he can pull from it. Sounds he can plant with his own between the tendons and cartilage.

Hannibal tilts his head, meets Will's periphery with his own. Will's knuckles are white; he doesn't realize until Hannibal's thumb brushes gently over them. "Are you alright?" he asks. They speak openly and freely, because there is no one else who could hear them. The Ripper is not on the plane to overhear Will, and Hannibal has no second name on his arm.

"No," Will confesses. The air is too dry, staticky and recycled. The roar of the engine might have been soothing to him on any other day, at any other time. Now, though, it presses on his head like nails in the mattress of his migraine. He put his aspirin in the bag they ended up checking, damn it.

Hannibal's lips purse, not in displeasure. He lets out a quiet hum of acceptance.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Will bites his lower lip so that he doesn't whimper. "Just promise me you won't leave me," he whispers, and hates how pathetic and weak that sounds. Hates that he knows Hannibal doesn't judge him for it. He probably likes it – Will was all bark and fight when they first met. His affection, hard-won; his love a battle of sacred ground. Now Hannibal has claimed it, he probably loves the reminder of how much Will needs him.

Hannibal turns to look at him, fixes him with eyes of whiskey and Earth and just a hint of bloodshed. "I promise," he says, sincere and solemn, and kisses Will's white knuckles. Will doesn't want to demand how he can be so sure. They're mates, they have to be mates, but Hannibal's enemy Mark disappeared, and changed, throughout his life. Just like Will's has.

How long until his name fades as well? He grits his teeth and sets his eyes out the window and tries not to think about how he would react to that. Because he knows it wouldn't be well. If Hannibal left him, if his arm went blank and Will's name disappeared forever….

Well, if your hand offends you, cut it off and throw it away. Will would. He would peel the skin back that betrayed him and carve his name onto Hannibal's bones. He would break his forearm, once for each letter. Sew him back up and brand him with solder so he became metal and solid in Hannibal's flesh.

The violence of these thoughts doesn't shock him. The intensity doesn't shock him, though it makes his hands tremble. What surprises him, in a flicker of a thought like a cat's lazy tail, is that Hannibal would be honored to see even a glimpse of what kind of creature Will is. To be the one that brought it out and suffered for it and has felt its savage brand of love.

Will swallows, and lifts the armrest separating their chairs so he can lean against Hannibal, cheek to his shoulder, hand on his thigh. He feels Hannibal's body tense, hears his breath stutter in overwhelmingly pleased surprise.

Smiles, as Hannibal turns his head and kisses Will's hair. Maybe a mate's touch is healing, because it helps Will's headache, and allows him to sleep.

Oh, Will.

Sweet, brilliant, _blind_ Will.

Hannibal had thought, when they'd joined for the first time and met eyes in the mirror, promising to know each and every part of themselves without reservation or remorse, that perhaps the inevitable consequence would be revealing the Ripper's identity, or letting him fade into obscurity.

He had been prepared for such a thing. Displaying his kills is a diversion, one he does not _need_ to indulge in. Killing for food and hunting for sport are very different compulsions, and while Hannibal cannot and will never give up the former, he can assuage the need for the latter into other entertainment.

The Ripper need not strike again. Now, with Will, Hannibal has all the attention he needs, from the one man who can give it to him as deeply as he will ever feel it. Shallow compliments and fawning are certainly pleasurable, but _Will_. Will settles him in his very soul, they are made for each other, and Will's regard and love could nourish him for a thousand years.

But Will…is not ready to let go of the Ripper just yet.

The panicked scent of his beloved, his heavy breathing, the tears in his eyes. Beautiful; a cacophonous medley of brash brass and trilling strings to the time of his rapid-beating heart. Will's pain makes Hannibal's mouth flood with saliva, his need for the Ripper is so flattering, it's _so flattering_ , and whatever this thing is that is too ravenous and raw to be called 'love', Hannibal is falling deeper into it by the second.

With Will pressed up sweet and sleepy against him, Hannibal's heart aches. It aches like Will makes his stomach ache; empty and hollow and desperate to be filled. Will makes every inch of him feel too rough and coarse and yet delicate as silk. Too heavy, too hollow, too fragile, too cruel.

He kisses Will's hair again, breathes him in deep, and resists the urge to wake Will with a kiss, to pull him to his feet and into the tiny airplane bathrooms that have no hope of fitting them and putting Will on his knees. Or, perhaps, turning and pinning him, a hand on his throat and another flat across his lovely mouth to keep him quiet. That compulsion is certainly difficult to ignore.

He settles himself with cupping Will's face in a gentle touch and sighing. Will answers him; a siren, an echo. God above, how can Hannibal possibly survive a second of separation now?

But he must. Until Will can release the Ripper. In all Hannibal's careful planning, he never expected to be his own consequence, his own worst enemy – thankfully not in the literal sense, for he has no idea how he would explain his own name appearing on his arm.

He had to come back to Will. The Ripper had to come back; Will would have been distraught, and Hannibal had promised not to abandon him. He won't, he couldn't possibly. He simply will have to make Will see.

That should be easy enough. Will has keen eyes. And, most of all, he has the curiosity of a hunting cat and the ravenous appetite of a starving dog. He needs to see the Ripper, he wants to, so desperately he's blinded to all else. Oh, Hannibal could eat him alive.

The plane lands without issue, their bags are collected and, following some unspoken agreement, Will follows Hannibal out to the parking lot for the long stay and towards Hannibal's car. Their bags are placed inside without a word, but then Will is against him, chest to chest, arms wrapping strong around Hannibal's waist, nose in his neck.

His beautiful, desperate Will. Hannibal's hand threads through his hair and clenches at the base of his skull, and Will winces like it was a blow. He kisses, to chin and jaw and cheek, kneading restlessly at Hannibal's back.

"Jack drove me here, before," Will tells him, and Hannibal nods, only a hum of acknowledgement escaping him. He is in no mood to mince words when his mate is so sweet and needy, pressed against him. Were the laws of the land a little less conservative, he would take Will right here. On his knees, so Will could fill him. In the backseat, so Hannibal could give himself in answer.

"I can take you home," Hannibal replies.

"Whose home?"

"Mine is closer," Hannibal murmurs, and Will smiles at him, lopsided and eager. "But you must attend to your dogs, I'm sure."

He sighs, lashes dipping low, nostrils flaring in displeasure. "Right," he admits, somewhat sheepish, guilty. "I -." He pauses, lips pressed together until the edges whiten, hands flattening on Hannibal's chest to feel his heartbeat. He clenches his eyes shut, bares his teeth. "I'm sorry. I feel like I'm -."

Hannibal curls his fingers around Will's, between them, seamless and welcome. "I can take you home," he says, and Will meets his eyes. "And then, if you prefer, I can take you away from it again."

Will's eyes flash, and darken, until they mimic the cloudy sky building with a promise of a storm on the horizon. Where trees and the sleek grey airport building meet, there is a cover of cloud, a distant rumble, and the specific scent of wet, heavy air.

"Okay," Will finally breathes. His lips are pink, bruised, dry; his cheeks stained from windchill. His eyes, wild and brilliant and so wide. He's beautiful, God above, Hannibal must draw him soon. He must commit Will's likeness to paper, lest he go mad with the unmet need to capture his mate. How can Will feel so solid and so out of reach all at once?

Will leans in, catches Hannibal in a kiss that makes the blood roar in his ears louder than the next ascending plane, and then lets him go, circling to the passenger side of the car. They get in, and drive away.

Will currently has seven dogs, and they swarm him and Hannibal when he shows up. He has to stop, taking a moment, as he hears the chorus of little growls, soft yips, and quiet barks. The click of their nails on his floor. The gentle swish of their tails and the huff of their breaths.

He stops so suddenly Hannibal collides into him, though he recovers quickly, setting Will's second bag down, which he'd carried in, and wrapping his arms around Will's chest, chin resting on his shoulder. "Are you alright?" he murmurs, and Will swallows loudly.

"I missed them," he replies. He has never heard them before, hasn't heard an animal, let alone a pet, since he was a kid. He hasn't been here since Hannibal touched him in Minnesota. There are tears in his eyes and he sets his second bag down, running a hand through his hair.

Hannibal kisses his exposed neck and Will shivers so suddenly his muscles tighten and cramp around his bones. He swallows, turns his head, catches Hannibal, cups his face and kisses him. It's impossible not to, when he's standing so close. Will turns in his arms and sighs when Hannibal tilts his head, deepening it. Just as hungry, it seems. They are snakes eating each other's tails, vampires trying to drink from each other and convincing themselves it would be enough.

Hannibal's fingers curl around Will's wrist, over the '-per', it's so large his sleeves don't hide it anymore. It ends with an elegant flick, calligraphy-like; a swirl that reaches past Will's wrist and around the meat of his thumb like a licking tongue. He shivers when Hannibal touches it; not out of revulsion. His arm burns under Hannibal's hand, like his skin was meant to be touched by this man, and reacts only to him.

"If you'd like," Hannibal purrs, low in his throat, "I can leave you alone for a while."

Will's stomach clenches, tenses. He swallows a snarl. Hannibal can't _leave_ him, no, no, he can't leave. Will can't let him leave. Hannibal is _his_ , he belongs to Will and Will would _kill_ him if -.

These thoughts are not his own. They can't be. Hannibal is gentle and adoring and sweet and Will needs to calm the fuck down. He would hate himself forever if he hurt Hannibal because of the thoughts in his head that are not his own, but feel like his own, and his head hurts and his arm burns and -.

"Will." Will blinks, snaps himself back, dizzy and panting as Hannibal cups his face and forces their eyes to meet.

"I'm sorry," Will says.

Hannibal smiles at him, like nothing is amiss. "I think you could do with a palate cleanser," he suggests gently. Will's upper lip twitches, his head hurts at the sides from clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes. "A few hours where there is no one worming their way into your skull. Some alone time, to become yourself again."

"I'm not insane," Will hisses.

"I never said you were," Hannibal replies. "But you are tired and stressed, and even the best of us need some time."

"To purge," Will whispers. Like a bad meal. Like poison.

Hannibal tilts his head. His thumb is so gentle on Will's cheek, his palm soft. There are calluses but not like Will's, not those of a working man, a lawman, who handles guns and other sharp and ragged objects. A surgeon, a painter, perhaps, where specific calluses grow on the inside of the middle finger, the edge of the thumb, the base where the palm begins.

Will sighs. "I don't want you to leave me," he confesses. It's weakness, but doesn't confession heal and strengthen? Isn't that what the Holy men say?

"I know." His free hand drops, circles Will's other wrist, where Hannibal's name lies. Strange; it doesn't burn as badly as the Ripper's name. Maybe because Will already has Hannibal. He closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline crash hitting him hard.

"Merely call for me and I will come," Hannibal tells him, soft and echoing from far away. Will hums sleepily, and allows Hannibal to herd him towards the bed positioned in the middle of his living room. His calves hit the mattress and he sits, pressing his lips together as Hannibal kneels at his feet, helping him with his shoes and socks.

"Hannibal," he murmurs, earning his eyes. There's something there. Something…. He's so tired. Will sighs, cups his face, leans in and rests their foreheads together. His fingers slide through Hannibal's fine hair, and he sighs again. He wants to say something, it thrums like a bird, frantically, at the back of his throat. But nothing comes out. Hannibal is taking care of him, just like he promised, just like Will knows he wants to, and it feels like thanking him for it would be as silly as thanking the sun for shining.

Hannibal rises, and pulls Will's button-down off until he is only in a t-shirt and jeans. He unthreads Will's belt, setting it to one side, but doesn't undress him further. Will's lips twitch with amusement at that.

He helps Will to lie flat. He pulls blankets over him and tucks him in. Will feels like Eloise. He feels like Abigail. He feels like himself and no one else.

Through his lashes, Hannibal is cast in shadow, and his silhouette rises high along the wall.

Hannibal leans in, gently combs Will's hair from his face with his delicate touch, and kisses his forehead. "Get some rest, darling," he purrs, in a way that makes Will's spine feel like sand, makes him want to melt and arch and _take_. He has claws, and fangs, just like his mate, but the Ripper is not his mate because Hannibal is.

It makes sense, he thinks idly, closing his eyes and listening to Hannibal head for the door. Enemies shouldn't be unbalanced, otherwise there would be no threat. Will and the Ripper, they're tied. Conjoined, maybe. They must be able to fight each other as equals; for every brutality and cruelty and sadistic delight the Ripper can offer, Will must be able to perform in turn. It only makes sense.

Just as for every gentle touch and kind word and loving smile Hannibal can provide, Will must be able to offer in turn. Strangely, he feels less self-assured about that as he does thinking about his capacity for violence. The Ripper has no interest in hiding, no interest in pretending he is not exactly who and what he is.

Hannibal, though.

Will's head hurts, and as Hannibal leaves, he listens to the crisp footsteps across the grass. Listens to the creak of his car door opening, closing, and the rumble of the engine coming to life. Will manages to haul himself out of bed and pad over to his bag, fishing out two aspirin and downing them dry, before he collapses back into bed and closes his eyes.

There are two bodies, but one has been cut in half to make the tableau look like three, from a certain angle. The first man, cut in half, was split so that his left arm, his chest, and his left leg remained with him, as well as the left side of his face. His other half kept the right side of his face, all his guts, his genitalia, and his right arm and right leg. The right man has no spine. It's been replaced with a metal pole, arching down so he can keep his shape.

The second man, he is whole. He is whole and largely unblemished. There is a line across his throat – a quick death, blood pooled along the ground. That line becomes a 'T' between his collarbones and down his chest, to his stomach, where another line stretches. The flesh has been peeled back to expose his disemboweled stomach, his barren ribs through which flowers are growing. His lungs, his stomach, his kidneys, his liver and intestines, all have been removed.

His heart remains. The right man and the left man are kissing it, their split-apart teeth and mouths locked in place. Like dogs fighting over a kill.

They are positioned just so; displayed, as if on a stage. The right man has his face and arm to the audience. His arm has been positioned and sewn behind the back of the whole man. He is holding his arm, and holding him upright, the whole man bowed back in a dramatic dip. The left man's hand is beneath the whole man's neck, keeping him upright, the whole man's head tilted away from the audience so that the grip on his neck is in plain view. The whole man's free arm is reaching for his lover, spread wide along the left man's remaining shoulder, sewn into his flesh so that they cannot part.

It looks like the whole man is trying to get away from the right man. It looks like the right man is offering his prey to the left. They are locked over the whole man's heart. Both full corpses have had their eyes removed.

 _Love is blind_ , a voice whispers to Will.

Their ears remain.

His knees shake and refuse to lock, he has to look, he has to. Both men have had their Marks skinned from their forearms – removing evidence, or maybe because they were unimportant. They did not fit this design.

"What do you make of it, Will?" Jack signs to him.

Will's hands shake, and then curl into fists so tight his nails bite into his palms. He takes a step, a step closer. These men, these two halves of a whole, they touch their love so gently. Right and left, supporting him, sharing the warm, red flesh of his heart between them.

Will isn't stupid. He knows who left this tableau for him. Him and only him.

The split man was strong. A tight grip pulls his lover's arm back. Will's fingers twitch, and he rubs his wrist, along the fading purple-black bruises from Hannibal's hold. He puts his eyes on the left man's hand, how wide and perfectly fitted it is. Maybe these two men are mates. Maybe they are perfect for each other, and somewhere far away, someone's arm is turning blank from their deaths.

He presses his lips together, tears in his eyes.

In his head, this is not their final pose. They are dancers, and the whole man opens his eyes and rises from his dip, smiles and kisses his lover as the two halves of the split man solidify. Will's hands twitch again. He is kissing half a man.

They split before his very eyes. The right man, a man of instinct, with his guts and cock and skeletal smile, keeps his lover close as they move through their passionate dance. His alter ego, his left side or emotion and love, remains behind, pressed flat to their lover's back, hands on his hips, helping him sway to a song only they can hear.

He promises support and safety. Flowers burst from their lover's chest. Freesia and Amaryllis, sunflowers and Queen Anne's Lace. Their lover chokes on the flowers in his mouth, and the right man quickly reaches into his stomach and pulls the organs free to stop them growing.

He is dipped back, and caught by the left man, and kissed, tongue and eyes ripped out so that he doesn't die. Mute, silenced, only to be held so tenderly in his killer's mouth. Will sobs, and reaches, hand hovering just above the exposed ribcage. He wants their hands on him. He needs their hands on him.

His heart is the only thing remaining. They do not split him, they can't. Because he belongs to both of them and them to him. He is theirs, he is theirs, oh God, his stomach hurts. He is so empty, so hollow. Where is his mate? Where is his love?

The left man kisses, and then the right, and then they meet over the whole man's heart, and Will falls to his knees.

It is impossible to think he can have them both. No matter how much the Ripper promises, he will kill Hannibal given the chance. And Hannibal could not possibly abide the Ripper's presence in Will's life. Will buries his face in his hands, clenching his eyes shut against the world and these torn lovers.

But he cannot do it for long. It is beautiful and macabre and makes Will feel _alive_. He lifts his eyes, and from beneath, he can see the turned face of the whole man. See that he looks not afraid, not in pain. He is smiling. So willing to be held and devoured by these two monsters of men. Will's vision blurs.

There must be something he's not seeing. He is blind, just like these men, but not blind enough to be blissfully ignorant. There is something here he's not seeing. A love so ardent and pure it must consume and devour. The Shrike loved like that. Will can, has, loved like that.

So wouldn't it follow that his mate loves the same way? An awareness of their distance, their separation. A hunger unending and impossible to sate. That's how Hannibal described it. Blood drips from what remains of the left man's mouth, stains his lips, his chin, his neck. Dries like sweat on his lover's cheek.

It's so _beautiful_. Purely, objectively lovely to look at. Art. The Ripper is an artist. Hannibal is, too.

Will sighs. Of course his enemy and his mate are so similar. Will clearly has a fucking type.

He turns his head until he can see Jack, because Jack is clearly waiting for him to speak. "I don't know," he sighs, fingertips to his temple and then pushing away. Jack frowns, lips turned down at the corners, clearly not willing to accept that answer. Will shoves himself to his feet, the scent of blood and flowers in the air. It clogs his nose and encases his throat and makes his mouth flood with saliva.

Jack's glower is heavy, and when his hands move, Will winces. "Nothing at all?" It's not impossible to communicate tone through sign language. Of course, the only voice Will has heard since he was a kid is Hannibal's, and Hannibal has a remarkably even manner. But facial expression goes a long way and Will doesn't like the derisive, disappointed look he's greeted with.

Will licks his lips and forces himself to look again. He circles the men, so he can see the whole man's face. His smiling mouth, caked with blood. He crouches and pries his jaws apart with gloved hands, to see that his tongue has been removed, just like in Will's reconstruction. Love is blind, love is…mute? No. Silent, yes; understanding. They need not mince words, even when they can hear them.

Will blinks, nostrils flaring. "You don't need to say anything," he whispers. From where he's kneeling, he knows Jack cannot see his lips move. No one can hear him; the Ripper turned his face away. Protecting him, while his heart was kept safe in his own teeth. Will's fingers tremble as they brush, feather-light, across the whole man's cheek. "I'll take care of you."

He swallows.

"Call for me, wordless, in the dark, and I will come."

Across the vast expanse of time and space where mates and enemies feel each other, a hand is reaching. Tenderly holding him. Bruising his wrist and supporting his neck, but those hands could crush and twist. Snap him, break his joints, let him fall so he cracks his skull along the ground. If either one of them dropped their love, he would fall. They have to work together, and be one, to keep him safe. He cannot fit in just one of them, he can't -.

Will's nostrils flare, and he stands. It's impossible to know which things the Ripper took because of his normal compulsion, or for the sake of his display. The whole man's internal organs except for his heart have all been removed and there is no evidence of them anywhere else. Similarly, the split man, though each half has kept its pieces, does not seem to be missing anything.

Why would he? He is whole, despite his split. He needs nothing except the nourishment his lover can offer – his sweet, eager mate, so empty and beautiful and smiling as he's devoured. Will presses a hand to his own stomach, thinks about how desperate he'd been to hold Hannibal.

He tilts his head so he can stare into the right man's empty socket. Despite there being no eye within it, he can tell that the man's gaze is fixed only on his love. On his heart – on himself, maybe, like an animal might watch itself in a mirror to prove there is another beast behind the glass. The flat innards of his skull have kept each half of his brain. Poetic, Will thinks. He has his brain and his teeth and a half of his tongue, perfectly sawed in two.

"Are you fighting?" he whispers of the man, thumbing tenderly into the hollow of cartilage making up his nose. "Can you share?"

He draws in a breath, bites his lower lip hard. The right man has guts and genitals – all instinct, the passionate, the basic and cruel. The left man, though, kept his heart. His love, his ardor, his breathless lungs and racing pulse. They are different and separate, but they are the same, needing only to come together around one thing, this man they both love -.

Will's hands go still. His fingers flex, slowly.

His head tilts.

He considers the grip, the posture. The right man, set to conquer and devour. The left, supporting and serving. Perhaps there is no fear, no reason to flee. He had thought at first that Instinct was offering to Love, but perhaps it is Love who has the power over their mate. After all, Instinct is grabbing him, but it is to Love he has offered his neck. It is Love whom he grips with nails in his shoulder.

"I chose you," Will says to Love, and feels his throat grow tight. "But I need…you." He looks to the right man. To Instinct. To the Ripper.

His breath leaves him in a trembling exhale. "I need you," he says again, and runs his hand down Instinct's arm, to where the rectangle of his Mark has been removed because it doesn't matter. They know whose name was there, in this design. He doesn't understand; there is some truth here, hidden behind bloody feathers and a black-skinned monster's smile.

"What do you want me to see?" he demands, pleads, begs. "Why would you take my eyes if you wanted me to see?"

Of course, the dead cannot answer him. Will's breathing is heavy, his throat tight. He can't muster up anything to appease Jack. His head burns so badly, pounds in rhythm of his racing heart. He wishes Hannibal was here – Hannibal can calm him, can center him.

But Hannibal shouldn't see this. He might think the worst of Will, to be so lovesick, to need both of them so much. Greedy. Awful, broken – _insane_.

He clenches his eyes tightly shut, grits his teeth. Digs his nails into his palms so hard they sting. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Dials blindly and listens to it trill in his ear. Such an odd sound, but he supposes it's not one that could be potentially confused with something else, and serves its purpose. Until Hannibal, he would only text, and the idea of _calling_ someone, just listening to their voice, is novel enough to make him notice little things like that.

"Hannibal?" he says, when the call is answered. "Can I come over?"

There is a pause. Something bated and anticipatory. Will's stomach goes tense. "Of course, darling," Hannibal purrs, and despite himself, Will smiles. Soft and sweet just like the whole man in his permanent embrace. "You are always welcome in my home."

"Thank you," Will breathes. "I'll be there in an hour."

"I'll make sure lunch is ready," Hannibal promises. Will closes his eyes, thinking of sharing another delicious meal with his mate. Thinks of the full, swollen feeling he will have, after. Thinks of adding to it, slaking his thirst with Hannibal's sweat and devouring him until he bursts. "I'll see you soon, Will."

"Yeah," Will whispers, and puts his eyes back on the tableau. On the two halves of jaws, locked around his heart. "See you."


	7. Chapter 7

The tableau of the murdered men still sits heavy behind Will's eyelids, shown to him whenever he blinks, as he pulls into a parking spot on Hannibal's street. It feels like a lifetime and merely a moment since he was here last, and every inch of Will shakes with the desire to throw himself out of his car before he's even at a halt, keys and bag forgotten, and sprint up to the dark door and burst his way inside.

He manages to overcome that urge. Barely. He sits, staring up the road at Hannibal's impressive brownstone, the unassuming but immaculate garden, the gate and wall separating front yard from public pavement. The lights are on in the bottom windows, where Will knows his dining room can look out. Is he waiting, standing at the window and staring like the wife of a sailor might stare at the horizon?

Will swallows. What can he possibly tell Hannibal? Hannibal will see how shaken he is, how desperate and off-kilter, and there's only so much of that Will can attribute to the natural insistence of his mating bond. Even if Hannibal feels it too, Will could only possibly be so ravenous, so desperate, before Hannibal realizes there is something wrong.

He can't tell Hannibal about the tableau. Hannibal is smart, and he's a Goddamn psychiatrist; he could probably pick up the Ripper's cues as easily as Will can. Empathy helps Will understand the 'why', not the 'what'. There's only so many ways to interpret blinded men. Men cut in half. Men dancing and smiling and so in love they're empty with it, waiting to be filled.

An animal noise gathers behind Will's collarbones and he presses a hand to his neck, trying to swallow it back.

Hannibal wishes, more than anything, that he could have been there to see Will take in his design. Will's sharp, all-seeing eyes, darting across each parted piece of flesh, absorbing every carefully positioned muscle, every planted flower, Hannibal can only imagine how he might look, taking it all in.

The girl on the stag's head, he had watched Will read that scene. Seen the displeasure and horror take over his beloved mate, so firmly entrenched in the Shrike's mindset that he had been disgusted. He had felt no offense, hearing Will call it petulant and childish – those were the Shrike's words, not Will's. And Will killed the Shrike, saving Hannibal the trouble of avenging his pride.

Watching Will lose himself to a killer's headspace had been almost erotic in how deeply it had moved Hannibal. He's sure, had he been there, and watched his alter ego take over his beautiful mate, it would have driven him insensate. He could not imagine what he would have done, but he's sure it would have been brutal and animal and altogether inappropriate for others to bear witness to.

He feels Will's proximity like an itch under his skin. Or perhaps it is longing – outside of the most unforgiving traffic, Will should be here by now. Hannibal's fingers flex, resisting the urge to call him and ask where he is. He does not want to appear too eager, not until he knows Will's thoughts. There is no doubt in his mind that Will understands the message he tried to send. How he reacts to it, how he _is_ reacting to it now, that is still unknown to Hannibal, and he cannot afford to do anything that might tip the scale one way or another.

He finds solace in the fact that Will's name remains, sharp-angled and dark as it has always been, on his arm. Whatever Will is thinking, he has not rejected Hannibal as his mate, which is promising. God, how he burns for Will – it may take merely a look, a single second of their eyes meeting before they lunge for each other with fangs and claws, two monsters uniquely suited howling for each other and only finding satisfaction in the touch and taste of their mate.

He hears the high creak of his garden gate, and his head snaps up at attention. Like he imagines Will's dogs do when they hear his car approaching. His mouth floods with saliva, anticipating something much sweeter than his harvest. It was plentiful, his victim had so much to give and gave it so willingly, and Hannibal has a veritable feast prepared to nourish and sate his mate. He is ready to provide food, or touch, whatever Will wants.

He forces himself to wait for the knock, rinsing his hands and wiping them on a cloth to attempt to calm his shaking hands. He goes to the door and opens it, revealing Will, windswept and flushed like he might have sprinted all the way from the crime scene. His eyes, dark as a storm at sea, lift and lock with Hannibal's.

Will's lips twitch in a smile, shoulders dropping in relief as though he had been holding his breath. "Hey," he whispers.

Hannibal smiles, and reaches for him. Will sinks into his embrace eagerly, cupping the back of his neck and kissing him passionately. Hannibal nudges the door closed and, as an afterthought, twists the lock. Will shivers at the sound of it, accepts another kiss and licking tongue, and laces their fingers together.

They part for air, foreheads touching, and Will shivers again.

"Hey," he says again.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal murmurs. Will's eyes flash at the sound of his voice, his teeth sink into his kiss-bruised lower lip. He arches into Hannibal's chest, plaintive like an animal, fingers sliding into Hannibal's hair and gripping tightly. Whatever he is thinking, whomever is sitting in his head, it's clear Will's thoughts are focused on something else for the moment. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving," Will breathes.

Hannibal smiles, and touches Will's red cheek with his thumb. Will's lashes flutter, and he turns his head into the touch, seeking more. "Shall we eat, then?"

"Okay," Will says with a small nod. Hannibal takes Will's hand from his hair and guides him towards the dining room table.

There is blessed silence. Not the forever-mute of the non-mated; this does not cover Will's ears like a second skin, preventing him from hearing. For it's not truly silent. He can hear Hannibal pouring them wine, can hear him plating their food. Hears the gentle whir of the air conditioning and the restless groaning of a house at rest.

No, the silence is in his head. Smothered; the roar went quiet as soon as Hannibal touched him. His fingers curl around themselves as he sits in the dining room, waiting for Hannibal to feed him like he did the first meal they shared. It's clear Hannibal has chosen a less formal setting, this time; the cloth placemats are a soft champagne color, the silverware gleaming but less fancy. He's comfortable having Will here; there is no flair of seduction. Of course there isn't; Will is already his.

His arm flexes, the Ripper's name aches as though bruised. Will looks down at the nail marks he left when the name disappeared, sees a halo of sickly green and yellow around them in very pale bruises. He bites his lower lip, closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of meat and capsaicin; lemongrass crisp on the tip of his tongue, chili flakes warming the back of his throat.

Hannibal emerges and Will opens his eyes, smiling as Hannibal places a large bowl in front of him, and then one for himself. Inside the bowl is a giant pile of noodles in a pale broth, slices of meat lining the edge. Hannibal sets down a pair of chopsticks, a fork, and a spoon for them each, and leaves to retrieve wine and water. Will nudges the soup with a chopstick, sees chunks of redder meat within it, spring onions chopped into tiny rings, large spinach leaves, flecks of red for spice. It smells fantastic, as he's come to expect from Hannibal.

Hannibal returns with a tray, water glasses with ice, two wine glasses, and a decanter of red wine atop it. He sets the tray down in front of his setting, and gives Will his water, and pours him a large glass of wine.

Will waits until everything is set out. Waits until Hannibal sits, and reaches for him, taking his hand. He doesn't lace their fingers, merely sets his hand over Hannibal's, gently curling.

"Smells great," he says quietly.

Hannibal's smile is warm with affection. "I found myself with an excess of meat this morning," he tells Will, and gestures to their bowls. "There is more, if you eat it all before finishing the rest."

Will hums, and releases Hannibal's hand. He takes the chopsticks, capable enough for the indelicate gripping of meat and noodles – he's useless with rice or smaller things, but can navigate the large chunks of meat, the giant spinach leaves, and the thick noodles passably. Hannibal waits for him to take his first bite, eyes dark with pleasure, before he turns his attention to his own meal.

Will shivers. Feeding one's mate is an intimate act; he feels Hannibal's mindset as easily as his own. Hannibal slides seamlessly into his mind. Hannibal brings with him a persistent, deep-seated ache. Longing and emptiness, desperate to be filled. Will wants to hold him, wants to put his hands on him, wants to drink from his mouth and push himself into every crevice. Take Hannibal inside, and fill him in turn, until their veins are snarled and tangled together, until each breath fills both their lungs in tandem, until their heartbeats sync up.

He eats. The food is blister hot and warms him all the way down to his stomach, noodles sliding down like nails in his esophagus. The heat of the chilis burns his gums and makes him run his tongue along the edges of his teeth to soothe them. His teeth are too sharp in his mouth.

"You were with Jack today?" Hannibal says, breaking the companionable, if charged, silence. Will grips his chopsticks tight. He nods. Hannibal's eyes flash to his, curious, and Will's stomach twists. He knows; Will is sure Hannibal knows.

"Did you speak with Jack?" he rasps. Jack might have texted him. He's Will's mate, after all, and if fate were a little less petty, he would be Will's therapist. He wouldn't put it past Jack to try to pick at Will's brain through Hannibal, gleaning what he can; whatever Hannibal will tell him.

Hannibal's head tilts, and he presses his lips together. "No," he says, and Will cannot tell if he's lying or not. "I assumed."

"I was," Will replies. He doesn't want Hannibal to think the worst of him – if Will is not teaching, and not at home, and not with Jack, he doesn't want Hannibal to wonder where he might be. There is already such a tenuous grasp on Will's loyalty, and he couldn't bear it if Hannibal thought Will's emotional affair extended to something else. Hannibal nods. "There was another murder. A double set." He clears his throat, sore on the inside. "I think it was the Ripper."

Hannibal hums, lightly, giving nothing away. He sips at his wine. "He moves quickly."

Will frowns. "What do you mean?"

"If he was in Minnesota, and now he's back so soon – perhaps there is something to consider there."

He knows. Will feels like he might choke from the poison of his own betrayal. He sets his chopsticks down so he doesn't accidentally snap them – though they are metal, and very thin, artfully decorated with little red flowers at the tip. He couldn't break them, but he might bend them, and that's as good as.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

Hannibal tilts his head, lips turned down in a small frown. "Whatever for?"

Will shakes his head fiercely, like a dog shedding water from its fur. He rakes nails over his scalp, his head suddenly tense with the beginning of a migraine. He pats his pocket for his aspirin, pulls the bottle out.

Hannibal reaches out and stops him. "Will," he says, quiet and steady. Will can't meet his eyes. His knuckles are white around the bottle. "What are you sorry for?"

Will swallows. "The Ripper killed two men," he says, his eyes on the food. "He cut one of them in half and placed them around the second man. Both of them holding him, both of them sharing his heart. And the second man was…was _smiling_."

How could he not be, to be held in the arms of men who love him so dearly? Will fights his hand free and swallows two pills dry, setting the bottle down by his water glass. He breathes out, and grabs the wine, taking a long swallow.

Hannibal is still staring at him. He will leave – he'll see how broken Will is, how fucking insane he must be to have seen what the Ripper did and felt _happy_ about it. Settled, like warm food in his stomach and a soothing voice in his ear. Will can say he chooses Hannibal, that he only wants Hannibal, as much as he wants, but he betrays himself with every longing look, every emotional reaction to the Ripper.

He can't have them both. He wants them both.

And the Ripper isn't willing to let him go. He faded for only a moment – maybe he was watching, to see what Will would do. He can't remember feeling any eyes on him as he'd ran to Hannibal's motel room, but then again, he hadn't been aware of much but the overwhelming emptiness, the barren expanse of his own arm and how horrified he'd been to see it. The Ripper is back and he's bigger and stronger than ever and Will can't keep playing both sides. It's not fair to Hannibal; at best, Hannibal will have his heart broken. At worst, he'll be killed because the Ripper isn't the kind of man who can share.

No matter what he tries to say, no matter how many split men he leaves for Will to see.

"Will." Hannibal's voice cuts through the fog and Will gasps. He reaches again, and Will doesn't flinch from him. Lets his fingers wrap around Will's wrist, around his own name on Will's arm. Will meets his eyes. "Don't leave."

Will swallows. "I can't help it, Hannibal," he murmurs. "I'm sorry."

Hannibal sighs through his nose, gaze dropping. Disappointed, of course he would be. Will is weak and greedy and wants too much, wants things that cannot possibly align. It's selfish and awful and Will can't fucking help himself.

"I think, perhaps, we could do with something a little stronger than wine," Hannibal says, releasing Will's arm. Will winces. He's letting go of Will – he's retreating. Hannibal stands. "Promise me that you'll stay."

"Where else would I go?" Will whispers bitterly.

Hannibal gives him a thin smile. "Perhaps the study?" he offers. Will frowns, and blinks up at him. "I have soundproofed it. It's quite a relaxing space. You may feel better, there."

Will has worked for Jack long enough to know when an offer is more like a command. He nods dumbly, and stands, cradling his wine to him like a shield. Hannibal smiles, and still seems tender enough when he cups Will's face and kisses him chastely. Will wonders if he can taste the poison in his mouth.

"I'll clear everything up," Hannibal tells him. "Go. Relax."

Will nods, following Hannibal's gesture to the door behind him. He goes through the door and closes it behind him, breathing out when he finds that Hannibal was right; he cannot hear Hannibal beyond the door. He's alone – awfully, utterly alone. He hates it.

The study is dark-lit and close-kept; there are two couches, leather and overstuffed, high bookshelves padded thickly with leather-bound tomes that gleam with gold titling and author namesakes. There is a wide, dark mantle, surrounding a black and dead fireplace.

Will rests against the door, drinking more wine. He supposes this is as good a place as any to have his heart broken, his lungs ripped out. His gaze falls to one side, to a writing desk on which he sees several loose papers, a journal, three pencils neatly arranged by a scalpel.

He smiles.

He goes to the desk, idly nudging the papers to one side so he can see more of the sketches. The one on top is a likeness of Johns Hopkins, and Will blinks in surprise to see Hannibal's signature in the bottom corner of it. Hannibal is an artist – and a skilled one. The realism of the piece makes Will feel like he could feel the crispness of the grass in his hand. That he could touch the building and feel its cool stone.

The second sketch is of two men, one of them laid out in the quiet, longest sleep. He is sprawled with one hand above his head, as though reaching behind him. Above him, another man is bent in grief, one fist over his heart, the other reaching down to reach for the dead man's other arm, their fingers almost brushing.

Will's head lifts as he hears the door open. Hannibal is holding two smaller glasses, generously poured. Will swallows and sets his wine down, accepting the other glass. Hannibal smiles at him, and tilts his head to see the sketch Will was admiring.

"You're very skilled," Will says.

Hannibal's head dips in a small, demure nod. He reaches with Will, brushing his fingers shy of the halo of the grieving man's hair. "Achilles, mourning the death of Patroclus," he says, and Will's eyes fall to it as well. He sips at the new drink, and it is almost unbearably sweet and numbs the inside of his mouth. "Achilles is one of the only people noted in history to have no enemy Mark for much of his life. The reason for it was theorized that it was because all Greeks were his enemy, and there were too many for his skin to bear."

Will hums, pressing his lips together.

"After Patroclus died, he bore Hector's name, until he fell."

Will nods, absently, so aware of Hannibal's closeness, his heat. He takes another drink.

"Achilles wished all Greeks would die, so he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone," Hannibal continues in the wake of Will's silence. Will can feel his gaze on the side of his face. "Patroclus was his equal in all things, so dearly loved that his death drove Achilles to fevered grief."

"He must have been so lonely," Will breathes, his throat tight.

Hannibal hums. "Do you think the Ripper is lonely, Will?"

Will closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. "Yes," he replies, because he can't deny it. If this longing is not Hannibal, it must be the Ripper. Will cannot ache for something he's never had. Maybe it is Hannibal, though – Will is so cruel, to only offer half of himself to his mate. He must ache terribly, knowing Will's heart is split in two, fought over by two dogs like a scrap of meat.

He opens his eyes, staring down at the sketch again. He sighs through his nose, brushing his thumb an inch above Achilles' grief-stricken face. Hannibal managed to capture the expression so well; Will looks at him and feels heartbreak.

It hurts, it hurts so badly he's blind with it. He sets his second drink down so he doesn't crush the glass, or drop it from his shaking hand. His heart is racing, so fast it feels like it has gone still. He flips the page, seeking something to do with his hands, and finds that beneath this funeral scene are studies of hands. Will's hands, he realizes, recognizing the nick on the back of his middle finger where he caught himself on a fishing line in his youth. The calluses on his palms from his gun.

He flushes, and lets the papers fall.

"I'm so terrified of losing you," he confesses, and finally turns to meet Hannibal's eyes, finds them dark and placid as an untouched pond. Beneath the surface, his thoughts are hidden from Will. "If I keep you, the Ripper could hurt you. If I let you go…."

Hannibal sighs, and sets his drink down next to Will's. "The Ripper excites you," he says. Will flinches, and wants to deny it. He can't. "Do I not excite you as well?"

Will frowns. "Of course you do," he replies.

"But not in the same way."

"It's impossible to compare you both," Will says, a fissure of anxiety stirring in his skull. How could he possibly compare them? He's never met the Ripper, he wouldn't know him from anyone else on the street unless he spoke. He can't know if his skin will burn for him, if his lungs will ache, if his mouth will go dry on first sight of him. The Ripper is all Instinct, he is not Love.

He reaches for Hannibal, grips his arm tightly. "It's not the Ripper who feeds me, and takes care of me, and loves me," he says. Hannibal's expression gives nothing away. "I have not sat at the Ripper's table, haven't kissed him and let him fuck me."

Hannibal's lips twitch.

He takes Will's hand, and tilts his head. "What if you had?" he asks. Will blinks at him, frown deepening. "What if the Ripper invited you somewhere, and wanted to touch you, and kiss you, and feed you from his table? Would you let him?"

"It doesn't matter," Will hisses, fingers tightening in Hannibal's bicep. "He waited too fucking long."

Hannibal is silent, and still, for so long Will's heart seizes in his chest and tries to escape through his throat. He stares, seeking something, _anything_ , in Hannibal's eyes. He's as blinded as the whole man, split open and has only his heart left to offer.

Finally, Hannibal nods, as though deciding something. "I suppose he did," he murmurs. Will swallows, cold to the bone, prepared for Hannibal to peel Will's touch from his clothes, to send him away and never welcome him back.

He doesn't get that. Instead, he gets his shoulders against the door and Hannibal's mouth on his. Will gasps, scrambling for a rough grip of the back of Hannibal's suit jacket and in his hair as Hannibal kisses him, both hands on Will's hips to keep him still.

He kisses like he's hungry, teeth in Will's lower lip, a rough snarl breaking the silence between Will's ragged breaths. His eyes, black in the low light, shine with fever, and Will lunges for him, that animal noise escaping him like a beast from chains, ready to hunt and chase and devour.

Hannibal collides with one of the couches first and Will crawls into place over him, spread on his lap as Hannibal holds him steady. He grips Hannibal's head with both hands and angles him up for a kiss, Hannibal's nails sharp in his back as Hannibal digs his fingers around Will's shirt and tugs until the collar of it rides up, threatening to choke him.

Hannibal answers Will's growl with a rumble of his own. He takes one of Will's hands and plants it on his shoulder. The other, he wrenches behind Will's back, holding him tight and pulling him close. Will gasps, panting against his neck as Hannibal brings Will against him, friction quickly sending pulses of heat down his spine that make him feel hungry and empty.

Hannibal lets go of Will's hand on his shoulder, content and assured that he will stay put, and quickly undoes the buttons of Will's shirt, baring his chest as the flush on his face and neck rushes down to stain it red, too. He cups Will's nape and kisses him, and Will moans against his mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, ravenous for more of it. He doesn't want to breathe any air except what Hannibal gives him, doesn't want to feel anything, hear anything, that isn't his mate.

These thoughts, these are his own. But they ring like a war cry, twofold. Will's teeth find Hannibal's jaw and sink in, and Hannibal grunts and twists Will's arm until he has to release it with a pained moan.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers, and feels Hannibal shiver in answer.

Hannibal's nails rake down Will's chest, and he swaps the hand gripping Will's wrist so that his dominant hand is free, expertly navigating Will's slacks until they part and he can work Will's erection free. Will's fingers flex in his shoulder, grip tight as Hannibal strokes him, panting against the underside of Will's jaw as Will writhes and grinds, helplessly, into the friction of his dry, tight palm.

His shoulder aches, and he clenches his jaw, trying to fight his arm loose, but Hannibal's hold is absolute, the position too unstable for Will to get the leverage he needs. He's trapped, caught and hooked on Hannibal's line, unable to do anything but follow the pull of his mate's desire, his kiss and the darkness of his eyes, into whatever murky waters Hannibal leads him to.

" _Hannibal_ ," he whispers weakly, groaning as Hannibal's thumb slides through the precum staining Will's cock. There's a tiny pool of it on Hannibal's shirt, and Will can't help picturing taking this further, spilling over Hannibal's stomach, marking him. He likes the idea.

Hannibal is _his_ , and Will deserves to mark him.

He drags his nails from Hannibal's shoulder to the back of his neck, holds him tightly and kisses him. Hannibal mimics him, one hand still holding Will's arm, the other letting his cock go so he can fist his hand in Will's hair. Will smiles into it, showing his teeth, and bites.

Hannibal snarls, and tugs on Will's hair until he tilts his head back, gasping to the ceiling. He feels Hannibal's teeth against his rushing pulse, feels him part his lips and plant a wide, dark suck-kiss against his throat.

He shivers, fingers flexing in Hannibal's hair.

Hannibal pulls back from the bite with a loud smack, and pulls on Will's hair again, making him fall to his side on the couch. Hannibal stands, manipulating Will to his back, and prowls into place between his spread thighs. Will arches up into his touch, drinks down the moan he wrenches from Hannibal's chest as he pulls Hannibal free from his clothes, one hand shaking and weak from being so abused, the other steady and sure.

There are bruises on his wrist. He knows they're there, even if he can't see them.

Hannibal bends down, wrapping a hand around Will's cock and Will strokes him in turn. He lowers his mouth to Will's bared chest, shows his teeth against his sternum and bites down on muscle, right over where his heart is.

Will tilts his head back, moaning weakly at the sting of pain. He reaches back over the armrest of the couch to try and get some purchase, and almost expects to see a second man. He's surprised when his fingers clutch leather and not flesh.

He freezes, a raw noise escaping him when he finds nothing; there is no one. Just him and Hannibal, all alone. No secret watcher in the shadows, no second man and lingering threat to separate them. Hannibal releases his heart, looks up, meets his eyes.

He rears up over Will, gathers him close and kisses Will breathless. Will's eyes burn and feel too large in his skull. "I'll take care of you," Hannibal promises, to Will's mouth, to his cheek, his ear, his tender neck. Will nods frantically, and reaches for his mate instead, second man forgotten. He can't have them both.

He is kissing half a man, and aches, aches awfully, even as Hannibal keeps touching him, higher and higher, their dance meeting a crescendo. Will comes with a rough growl, Hannibal following a moment later, both of them spilled into the hollow of Will's exposed belly. He almost expects flowers to grow from the planted seed.

He closes his eyes, a cry in his chest he refuses to give voice to. He buries it in Hannibal's neck, both arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging as hard as he can. Hannibal rests on top of him, gently smothering, and plants kisses to Will's forehead and hair as he recovers.

When it feels like he can breathe, he huffs a sheepish laugh, shaking his head as Hannibal lifts his head and rests their foreheads together. "We ruined your clothes," he says.

"Clothes can be cleaned," Hannibal replies with a shrug. Will laughs again, and hates how heavy his head feels. Hannibal pushes himself to his knees and helps Will sit upright, tutting as he thumbs over Will's neck. "I apologize. I was overzealous."

"I don't care," Will replies, surprised by his vehemence. Hannibal blinks at him, and smiles widely. He leans in and cups Will's neck, kissing him chastely, but long, until Will loses his breath all over again. His neck throbs tenderly under Hannibal's touch, and he smiles, closing his eyes, tilting his head away from it to invite Hannibal to hold him more steadily.

Hannibal sighs, the sound heavy with satisfaction. "I will fetch us something to clean up with," he says, and Will nods, humming absently. Hannibal rises, releasing him, and Will watches him leave. He keeps the study door open, so Will can hear him adjusting his clothes, tucking in their chairs, and going to the kitchen.

Will tucks himself back in, running his clean hand through his hair. He sighs, biting his lower lip, thumb rubbing over the mark on his chest. He stares down at it, and the stain of come on his stomach. His arm hurts from Hannibal's tight grip, and he shoves his sleeves up higher, revealing the ring of bruises around the Ripper's name.

Hannibal seems to prefer holding this arm while they have sex. Two isn't quite a pattern, but it hints at one. Will's fingers flex, considering – possessiveness, for certain. Hannibal has no rival Mark for Will to be jealous of, no other name but Will's own.

His shoulder aches, and Will rolls it, hissing as it pops. His gaze travels to the arm of the couch, seeing little furrows dug in by his nails from the split-second grip. He wets his lips, eyes lifting to the empty space above it.

He tilts his head. With his Ripper arm so sore, he had reached with his other one. With Hannibal's. Seeking out Love above his head, just like the whole man. Just like his had been.

He frowns, and pushes up his other sleeve, considering his arms. One wrenched behind his back by the Ripper. By the right man. By Instinct. The other, reaching for Love. Hannibal's name is on that one. The only person who knows what is on Will's arms is Hannibal; he's the only one who would know which was which.

His fingers curl.

It could be coincidence.

He stands, running his hands through his hair, and approaches the writing desk, peeling the sketch of Johns Hopkins away to reveal Achilles and Patroclus. Then, below that, his hands. His arms, with Hannibal's name and the Ripper's depicted in perfect clarity.

Hands shaking, a tiny, malnourished, wretched suspicion blinking awake in his skull, he goes to the next page.

It depicts an anatomical study of an eye. Taken out by the root. On the second half of the page, a cluster of familiar flowers around an anatomically correct heart. The eye is drawn so it's looking at the heart. The next page has a human mouth, bisected in half so Will can see the left side of two rows of teeth, a tongue, a nose and the hinge of a jaw.

His fingers curl into fists, his breath coming fast. He hears Hannibal returning, and hurriedly corrects the sketches, taking his wine back in hand and finishing it with a gasp as Hannibal emerges, a folded washcloth in his hand. He smiles at Will, and approaches him, not handing it to Will but taking it upon himself to clean Will's stomach himself with long, tender sweeps of the cloth. Even now, taking care of him, doing what he can to make sure Will is safe and comfortable in his home and in his arms.

Will stares at him. Considers: the timeline. The twitch of Hannibal's mouth. The fact that the Ripper's name disappeared after they first had sex, after they promised to know each other. Returned, when Will showed Hannibal how distraught he was at its absence.

_It seems he can't quite let go of you just yet._

But no, it was Will who couldn't let go, wasn't it? He's the only one who would have known. Who would have positioned the bodies just so, who could hold a girl's neck while she bled out and make Will's skin burn when they touch; who knew which arm to offer to Instinct, which one to place on Love's shoulder.

Of course he knew – of course it's worse for Will. Will is feeling is twice as much, twice as badly.

Will's fingers shake, and curl into tight fists. "Hannibal," he whispers.

Hannibal's eyes lift, and meet his. Not just black, but abyssal, deep as a chasm that Will could easily fall into. There is a monster in this forest, a monster in the halls of Will's mind, and he's been right in front of him the entire time.

Hannibal's head tilts. "Yes, Will?"

Will swallows. Wets his lips. "I'm hungry."

Hannibal's eyes flash, his smile widening. Had he always looked so pleased at the notion of feeding Will? Of course, he must have. He's not just feeding his mate, but his enemy too. But he can't –. Will's name isn't labeled twice on his arm. Hannibal has no enemy. Just –. Just Will.

It occurs to Will, that maybe that is what he didn't see in the tableau. He is feeding both his mates, and they are not split in half because Will wants them both, but because they are the same. Two halves of a perfect whole that loves and lusts so completely, they united, corralled and hunted him, set to devour him in his entirety.

"I can reheat lunch, then," Hannibal purrs. Will shivers, and nods, and when Hannibal kisses him every muscle in him tightens and wants to lunge all over again.

"Hannibal," he says again, when Hannibal pulls away from him. He catches Hannibal's wrist. The arm with his name. Grips tight enough Hannibal's nostrils flare at the strength of it. There's a damp spot on Hannibal's stomach; Will's mark. The room stinks of sex and Will's stomach is heavy and he's hungry, he's so hungry he can't speak.

Hannibal blinks at him, slow like a contented cat. "Are you alright, Will?"

"I don't know," Will replies. There are too many people in his head. Hannibal's satisfaction, the Ripper's contentment, Will's own riotous beast that sees, that _sees_ its mate. Sees its enemy. They are the same and Will loves them both and needs them both. And they are the same person – the person who already loves him, who said Will was welcome in his home. Who helped him see, in Minnesota. Who has invited him to his table and kissed him and touched him.

Will was so _blind_.

"Never mind," he breathes, releasing Hannibal's arm. He manages a smile. "Lunch sounds great. I just need a minute." He gestures at his state of undress, shivers as Hannibal's eyes rake him up and down, black and hungry.

He nods, and smiles, leaving the room again.

Hannibal sighs to himself. It is a pity – even with Hannibal's careful design and construction, it seems Will is still not quite able to reconcile the reality of Hannibal and the legacy of the Ripper into one person. It is no matter – he overestimated Will's cynicism, but these things take time and patience. Hannibal will leave as many love letters as he must to make Will see.

He gets to the kitchen and freezes, a terrible burn starting on his bare arm. He frowns, shedding his jacket and rolling up his sleeve, watches as, slowly, a splotch of ink blooms on his skin. It writhes like a wretched creature born too soon into the world, too weak and sickly to handle its own air. But it grows, forming letters. Forming a name.

Hannibal half-expects it to become Jack's name again. Or some other person he does not yet know; the mate of one of his victims, perhaps, which will come with its own challenges. What he does not expect to see, in neat cursive script that matches his own, is Will's name.

He turns, looking over his shoulder, and sees Will's silhouette darkening the doorway. Will's eyes drop, and he presses his lips together. It's too late to hide the name now – he knows Will has seen it.

"So," he says quietly. "It's true."

Hannibal's head tilts. What comes next must be handled carefully.

Will's jaw clenches, his nostrils flare. "The scales have finally fallen from my eyes," he hisses. "I see you."

Hannibal nods, sighing through his nose.

"Tell me, Will," he murmurs. "What do you see?"

Will cocks his head to one side. Stares. The silence stretches between them like time and space, devoid of anything but darkness. Potential and inevitability hurtling towards each other, set to implode.

"I see the man and the monster I love," Will finally says. Hannibal's eyes snap up, he meets Will's gaze. Will is beautiful at all times, but this, this repressed and bated anger, this prowling and snarling, molten rage, is breathtaking. "And I see someone who owes me answers."

Hannibal's heart is racing.

Will nods to the stovetop, where everything except the meat was left in a large pot. Hannibal follows his gaze, and then back to Will, finds him regarding Hannibal with an expectantly arched brow. Hannibal clears his throat, pulls his sleeve down, and gives a nod of acquiescence.

"It'll only be a moment."

"Good," Will says, teeth snapping around the word with a clack. He straightens, and disappears from sight as he goes towards the dining room. Hannibal breathes out, still, despite everything, aching with the need to give chase. He turns to the stove, and sets the heat on high.


	8. Chapter 8

Hannibal brings them both a bowl of soup. He refills the wine, and fetches the glasses with syrupy port. He dims the lights to something subtle and intimate, drawing the borders of Will's pupils out wide, making the blue of his eyes grow dark and black as bruised flesh.

Will's nostrils flare as he sets their bowls down and takes his seat. His eyes, low-lidded and giving nothing away, graze over his own forearms like the touch of a lover, slow as frigid ice takes over a lake, grows thicker and thicker as winter settles on her throne.

His eyes flash to Hannibal, to his eyes and his mouth and his chest. Then, Hannibal's arms. He presses his lips together and whispers; "Show me."

Hannibal dips his head and rolls his sleeves up, showing that there is, still a mirror of Will's name on each of his arms. One is still like an etching upon stone or wood, all right angles and sharp, thin lines. The other, bulging and thinning in a calligrapher's hand, artful curves stretching across his forearm in a neat little line. No longer than his hand, no wider than two of his fingers. Simply stated and confident in its placement; a placard for all to see.

No child placed this, no rushed scratches of forbidden love beneath a desk before the teacher caught him. No scrawling in the back of a notebook, tucked beneath a mattress out of the way of prying eyes. This name, this mark, was left by a creature of solidness and surety; a man who smiled into the void, and loved what smiled back at him.

Will sighs through his nose, and touches, feather-light, the webbing of veins that curl around the Ripper's name, and they both watch the flex of tendon, the smattering of fine, dark hair, as it blends and shifts the name to make it look like it can move on its own.

"The handwriting matches," he says. Breathes out, a shaky laugh both bitter and sweet. "I should have figured it out sooner. Yours, and his, they're the same."

He sounds like he might be going into shock – too level and even. No distress, Hannibal can't even smell the over-saturation of lime and sugar he generally associates with an adrenaline rush. Will's pupils are wide, not narrowed in fight or flight response. His pulse, Hannibal can taste it, and it does not rush. There is no sweat or flush on him except for what lingers from their time in the study, where they pressed close and moved as beasts and marked each other in one of the most primal ways possible.

"What do the flowers mean?" Will asks.

Hannibal lets out air through his nose, presses his lips together. "Before I answer," he says, and sees Will's brow crease in a tiny frown, his upper lip curled for so short a time Hannibal would have missed it had he not been looking so closely; "Am I discussing my day with my mate, or confessing a crime to my enemy?"

Will's fingers flex, and curl into fists. "They're one and the same now, aren't they?" he demands. He looks at Hannibal beneath his sweep of wild hair, eyes shadowed. Oh, he's so beautiful when he stares at Hannibal from the dark. "You did this to yourself." He gestures between their arms, noting the similarity of the 'I's, the inward curl of the base of the 'H' leading to the next letter. The matching belly of the 'A's and the mirroring flick of 'M' and 'R' that spiral to a halt on their skins.

Hannibal cannot help but smile. "Typography of Marks cannot be relied upon in a court of law," he reminds Will. Will blinks at him. Smiles; a twitch of his lips that looks involuntary until he schools his expression and draws back. The introduction of new inches between them makes Hannibal snarl, makes him want to lunge and bite. His mate has always come to him so readily, so fervent and eager, it cuts Hannibal deeply to know his touch would be rejected now. His food, too – Will demanded to be fed, but he isn't eating.

"What do the flowers mean?" Will asks again.

Hannibal sighs. "The Amaryllis flower symbolizes splendid beauty," he says, knowing he is damning himself further, for he didn't ask what kind of flowers grew from the belly of the dead man, and Will never offered that information. Will's cheeks color at the words, a delicate pink Hannibal wants to pull out through his skin. "And great worth. Freesia, for innocence and thoughtfulness."

Will blinks at him, entranced. What Hannibal would give to walk within the halls of his mind. Is the Ripper singing to him, is he planting these flowers anew in Will's chest and walking him through their meaning? How can Hannibal burn with jealousy over his own self?

"The sunflower compliments those; it symbolizes pure thoughts, adoration, and dedication. Queen Anne's Lace, for complexity and sanctuary." Hannibal sighs. "There might have been more, if time was kinder. A garden the rival of Eden or Babylon."

Will's head tilts.

"Holy," he murmurs, thoughtful and low. "Creationist. Am I an altar to you, Hannibal, or the god you offer sacrifices to?"

"Can they not be one and the same?" Hannibal asks, and Will smiles with him.

He hums. "You wanted me to find out," he says. Hannibal nods, for he cannot deny it. "Why not just tell me?"

Hannibal smiles, though it is faint. Will answers it; they both know words are a commodity, a precious one, but life even more so. The Ripper is not one to call out from the void; he is silent, he cannot speak. He is an artist who provides displays, and who other but his mate would be able to read them so clearly? It is a secret language, even more secret than their voices, than sound. A thing only shared between the two of them beyond the comprehension of all others.

"Why did his name disappear?" Will asks. "Do you know?"

Hannibal sighs. "There was a point where I imagine he considered himself not needed," he replies. If Will if aggravated by Hannibal's clinging to the Ripper as a third, foreign entity, he doesn't show it. He leans in, one elbow on the table, chin cupped in his hand. Hannibal might cut it off and replace it with his own if Will doesn't let him near soon. "Only when seeing how distraught you were, would he have returned."

Will's lips part, a soundless gasp that brings tension to his shoulders and curls his nails into his jaw, whitening the skin around their bite. It mirrors the smarting mark he left on Hannibal's jaw in the study; sore, perhaps it will leave a pink ring that might linger for days. Inwardly, he is warmed by the thought.

"Did he delight in my distress?" he whispers.

Hannibal considers it, for long enough to be certain the answer is genuine. "I would like to tell you 'No'," he says, parroting Will's words back at him. "But I'm afraid I cannot."

Will hums, eyes dropping to Hannibal's arm again. He straightens, so his head is no longer supported by his hand. It drops, hovers an inch shy of Hannibal's bare skin. He wants to lift into it, to arch like a plaintive animal, desperate for touch. He merely turns his hand upward, so the innards of his forearm is bare, to show Will all of it. Vulnerable and open; he sees it settle behind Will's eyes like a veil.

Will curls his fingers, and sets two of them to Hannibal's pulse. It jumps under his touch, rearing up to test the resistance of Will's skin. They must bleed together, melt together, to become one. There is only so much distance Hannibal can take, and even the atoms of their flesh separating their bones feel like miles.

"Whose name was here?" he asks.

Hannibal sighs. "It has changed throughout my life," he says. "Before it faded, most recently, it was Jack."

"Jack," Will repeats, frowning. His head tilts.

"I have never spoken around him loud enough for him to hear," Hannibal replies. "You can imagine my surprise, when my enemy led me right to you."

"We have that in common, I suppose," Will muses. A smile teases at the corners of his mouth, brightening his eyes, softening the lines around them. It teases, it teases, a slip of teeth shining in the low light.

He sighs again, and meets Hannibal's eager eyes. "When you saw the names on my arms," he begins, "what did you feel? Don't lie." He taps his fingers against Hannibal's pulse. He will feel it. Hannibal has always prided himself on keeping steady in the face of surprises, but Will strips that all away. His heart races beneath Will's touch, his skin burns – not in the way it does when Marks change, but with pure and overwhelming desire. It blinds him and mutes him, and his mouth is dry. "I can forgive sins of omission, but not outright lies."

"I felt as though I would burn the world to ash if it would make you happy," Hannibal breathes. "I have only lied to you once, about whose name rested here before yours."

Will nods. He draws his hand back and Hannibal aches, fiercely, like a wound in the stomach, with the need to give chase. Every muscle in him grows tense with the desire to lunge, his teeth itch and his jaw is sore with the desire to find something soft and warm to bite into. The stretch of Will's bruised neck haunts him, taunts him; he is ravenous.

Will takes up his chopsticks, attention turning to the food for the first time since its reintroduction. He tilts his head, idly nudging at the chunks of meat within the bowl. His eyes blacken further, and then flash with a dark realization. An excess of meat; Hannibal wasn't subtle in that regard. It would not be difficult to put two and two together.

He breathes out, and rubs his free hand over his mouth. "The girl in the field," he whispers. A question he already knows the answer to.

"Feeding you is one of the greatest pleasures in my life, Will," Hannibal replies. "To take what was being wasted and repurpose it to warm your belly and give you strength."

Will's laugh, when it comes, is high and soft. "What an honor," he whispers. He takes a piece of what used to be a man's liver, the same man that now holds flowers in his gut. He lifts it to his lips and consumes it whole, chewing only twice before he swallows it. There is no revulsion on his face, no tightening of his throat or chest in rejection of the food. He swallows loudly. Does not wash it down with wine.

Hannibal must put his own utensils down, lest he snap them.

Will presses his lips together, nostrils flaring, eyes on the bowl. "I always wondered what the Ripper's voice would sound like," he confesses. "I always imagined him as some…wretched thing. Skeletal and starving, desperate to be touched and acknowledged. I imagined he had a voice like a…. Like a ghost," he says. "Half-heard. A whisper, rasping, mutilated and mangled."

Hannibal's head tilts.

"I always wanted to think I would know him when I saw him. That every inch of me would leap up at attention." He smiles, lopsided and wide. "I suppose that did happen. When I heard you, it was like there was a voice in my head, one I'd never heard before, and it said, 'At last, there you are'. Before I even knew."

"There as been no moment since we met that I haven't wished to confess to you, Will," Hannibal replies, and his voice is hoarse and low. It makes Will shiver, knuckles white around his chopsticks. He sets them down and reaches for the wine, taking a long sip. "I promised I would let you know me. And now you do."

Will nods. "Now I do."

"So what happens now?"

"Am I your enemy?" Will asks, and gestures with his wine to his Mark on Hannibal's arm. "Are you still mine? I don't feel like you are. I don't know what it means."

Hannibal joins him in looking down at it. "It only emerged once you were ready to acknowledge the truth," he says gently. "I suppose, now, all that remains is what you choose to do with that truth."

Will nods. "A righteous man would put you in chains, seal you away so you could do no more harm."

Hannibal sighs. "That would be right and just."

"But I can't do that," Will replies, shaking his head. "You're my -. You're everything, Hannibal. Quite literally." He lifts the Ripper's arm and laughs. "I can't throw one of you away without losing the other. I can't do it. I don't want to."

He sets his wine glass down, plants both elbows on the table and runs his hands through his hair, breathing out heavily. His eyes lift, to the array of horns atop the mantle, framing _Leda and the Swan_. The artist chose to put Zeus' name upon her arm, suggesting they were destined to be together. But one cannot mate with a god. Upon the swan's wings, there is no answering ink, nothing to tie him to a mortal soul. How must she have felt, laying with an animal, knowing it was not her mate that desired to part her thighs and plant a child in her belly?

"Perhaps," Hannibal says slowly, testing each word before he gives it voice, "the only thing that keeps an enemy on our arms is your internal conflict." Will's eyes flash to him, dark beneath his hair. "You love the Ripper."

Will's mouth tightens, an instinctive protest dying on his tongue. He swallows, and nods. "I'm ashamed of that," he says.

"Why?"

"Men shouldn't love monsters," he snaps, frown deepening. "But here you sit."

"Here I sit," Hannibal confirms with a nod. "Two halves of the same man, who both think you are beyond compare."

Will says nothing, his teeth a cage for words that he will not let free.

Hannibal sighs, and takes a drink of wine.

"I dance upon the edge of a knife," Will finally whispers, after Hannibal has had his drink, has numbed the sharpness of his teeth and deadened his tongue. "On one side, bliss, on the other, damnation. And I can't see which is which."

"The answer is obvious," Hannibal replies. "Are you going to be blind, Will?"

Will flinches. Snarls; "It's not as simple as that."

"Yes, it is," Hannibal says. "You are mine, and I am yours. Now, you know the full extent of what that means. You know that with my love comes the love of the other soul that has stained your skin since you were a child. My voice, the only one you will ever hear. So, you have the choice to accept all of it, or reject me in my entirety."

Will's lips part again, and he sucks in a ragged breath. His eyes brighten with tears, stubbornly blinked back.

"You wanted to know me," Hannibal says. "Now that you do, what is your decision?"

Will shakes his head vehemently, like an animal trying to get rid of a persistent fly. He grabs at his hair, twisting it between his fingers. Stares at his food and exhales, slowly, eyes falling closed. His fingers flex, and he laces them at the back of his neck, head bowed, shivering.

"I'll admit, I'm surprised," Hannibal says, when the silence stretches past the point of uncomfortable to unbearable. Will hums. "I thought you would be angry. Or afraid."

"You don't want me to be afraid," Will whispers, heavy with assuredness. "You've never wanted that."

"That is true."

"Do you want me to be angry?" Will asks, and lifts his head so their eyes can meet again.

Hannibal smiles. "You are beautiful in your anger," he replies. "If you were angry, I could understand. I would be honored, to bear witness to it. It is a…secretive emotion, for you." Will blinks at him. "You reign in your emotions and your feelings out of fear of the world's judgement. What and who you love, you have had to hide and reject for so long, even from me, when we first met."

"Ironic, isn't it?" Will says with a wry smile.

"God does like His little jokes."

Will's smile widens, for just a moment, his eyes softening with unbearable affection. Then, the expression falls, and he sucks in another shaky breath. "I am angry," he confesses. "But it's…. It's an absent kind of anger. Far away and out of reach. My shock yielded quickly to understanding." His eyes lift. "I understand."

Another cruel trick, perhaps. Will is incapable of _not_ seeing why and what Hannibal has done. Incapable of rejecting it based on morality and judgement. He is not an agent of the law, he is not a man with a moral compass set on right and just and what is inarguably good. Instead, endlessly spinning, seeking a true North.

He can't hide what he's said so far. The Ripper excites him. The Ripper enthralls him, exhilarates him. He reacts like an animal when he sees what the Ripper does; blood courses through him, hot and alive, and his mind is ablaze with knowledge like prophets of the old God. Ignorance might have been exquisite bliss and graceful agony, but knowledge is centering. Weight. Warmth.

Love.

Hannibal holds out his hand, palm turned up in open invitation. "We can leave, if you want," he says. Will frowns at him, blinks once, twice. "Leave a note for Jack. Feed your dogs. We could leave tonight."

"You want me to run away with you?" Will asks. His eyes fall to Hannibal's hand. His fingers stiffen, and unlace, falling to either side of his bowl.

"We can stay, or we can go," Hannibal tells him. "I could be happy anywhere."

"I hear your voice, but not your words," Will replies.

Hannibal's head tilts.

Will meets his gaze, steady. Serene, almost – no longer a wayward boat on stormy seas. He is a weaponized vessel, set to devour, set on a course of destruction. They may collide, metal and cliffsides, and crumble together into oblivion. One of them might fall – the ship could dash itself to pieces on the unforgiving land, or the mountain may bow and dissolve completely.

Hannibal stands, and Will meets him, poised to fight. His hand fits perfectly in the curve of Will's throat, his fingers nestled easily in Will's messy hair. Will grabs his forearms, squeezes tight enough to bruise, nostrils flaring and teeth on display.

"My home is here," Hannibal says, low and perfectly content with the knowledge of being right. He presses his nose to Will's temple, smiles as Will shivers and gasps against his shoulder. He doesn't fight, doesn't try to pull away, but neither is he entirely lax. There is some self-preservation instinct in his beloved mate, but Will does not know whether he should yield or fight. "It is here."

His hand slides from Will's throat to rest over his racing heart.

"It is here," he repeats, down further, to Will's stomach. Will swallows loudly, breathing hard. The deck is certainly stacked in Hannibal's favor, but he feels a curious franticness in his own touch, now. Now it is not just a persistent but manageable ache in his chest that bids him touch and taste his mate – now, there is an enemy in his midst. He feels as though he is twice as heavy, burning twice as hot.

"I could be anywhere, and content, as long as I am with you," he says. Will's breath escapes him in a ragged, desperate snarl. He turns his head and touches his teeth to Hannibal's jaw. Not quite a kiss, but warm and open-mouthed, nonetheless.

Will shivers, hands tightening to the point of pain on Hannibal's forearms. He winces, closes his eyes.

"I don't want to be alone," Will breathes. "I don't want you to be alone."

"Then stay with me," Hannibal says, and doesn't like to say it's a plea, but there is no other word for it. It is desperate and soft, spoken into the vast expanse of potential and regret and triumph. Reaching out, praying that Will reaches back.

He lifts his hand and cups Will's face, as he wanted to do mere moments ago. "Stay."

Will's eyes are wet, his mouth twisted into a reluctant grimace. "What about Jack?" he whispers.

"Say the word and I'll tear him to shreds," Hannibal snarls. Will blinks at him, eyes wide in shock. But there is no horror. "He brought us together. He served his purpose. Will you let him continue to flay your mind to nothingness, to pick at your brilliance until you are nothing more than a shell?"

"Don't hurt Jack," Will commands, eyes flashing. "Don't leave his mate by herself."

Hannibal sighs, and nods.

Will stares at him, and breathes out. The hand on Hannibal's arm, which touches the original off-kilter Mark of his soulmate name, reaches, fingertips dragging feather-light across Hannibal's jaw. There is no fear in him, nothing but the same ravenous need for closeness Hannibal has come to recognize in his eyes.

"You would, wouldn't you?" he asks. Hannibal tilts his head, nuzzles his cheek into Will's hand. "If I told you to stop, you would. You were going to."

"Are you asking me to?" Hannibal replies.

"No," Will says. His fingers curl and he shakes his head. His other hand, which remained around Hannibal's other wrist, slides down to cover his hand where it still rests against Will's stomach. "You know I'm not. But you would have. You would have put it all away; your hubris and your artistry."

"We are all constantly evolving," Hannibal tells him. "I am not incapable of adapting to a new environment. If…." He sighs through his nose, blinks slowly as Will presses even closer to him, thumb beneath his chin to hold him still as Will nuzzles the smarting bite mark on his jaw. His hand tightens in Will's hair, wanting him closer.

"The snake in the garden was an Angel, once," Will murmurs to his flushing skin. His fingers curl between Hannibal's, on his stomach. "There is a story of a woman who came before Eve, named Lilith, who rejected her fate as Adam's wife. She chose instead to go with Samael, for he offered her freedom and control over her body and her mind."

"That's what I want for you, Will," Hannibal breathes. It feels as though there is no air in the room anymore; that he might die if Will does not breathe life into him. Will's eyes shine in the low light, no tears in them anymore. He is God-given, grace and wrath. A Holy man. A hollow man.

Will smiles, and pulls Hannibal to him, mouth open for a kiss that feels hungry. Every muscle in Hannibal goes tense, and while he manages to retain enough decorum not to throw Will onto the table, to scatter their food and wine and mount him over this altar, it is a close thing.

"You are the creature that, if I shot you down, I would hang you around my neck for the rest of my days," Will tells him, breathing hard. He kisses again, mouth wet as a flood; salivating, both of them are, and it's messy and graceless and Hannibal could not stop if he tried. "We don’t have to leave. I see you now, Hannibal. I can protect you."

Hannibal smiles, and shoves Will's chair out of the way. It cracks against the table with a loud sound and Will gasps, clinging to Hannibal as Hannibal crushes them together in turn. Will's hands find Hannibal's shoulders and grip tightly, knuckles white, panting as Hannibal draws the air from his lungs and feeds it back to him.

They end up on the floor while dinner grows cold, with Hannibal's teeth in Will's neck as Will rakes lines down his back, and Hannibal laces their fingers together and plants their arms above Will's head. It is both of their enemy arms, rutting together as fiercely as they do. Will kisses him with all the ferocity and passion of a man returning to his beloved from a long war.

By the end of it, once Will has spread his thighs and welcomed Hannibal back into his body as eagerly as he always has, it is as though the friction of their arms has rubbed them clean. There is no enemy Mark on Hannibal's arm, nor Will's. Hannibal watches as his own name curls and stretches on Will's mate arm, grows thicker and larger, and encases his entire limb, from shoulder to wrist. His own melts as Will's does, the mate Mark growing stronger and twisting, combining the sharp angles and the overarching curls. It is not quite his handwriting, not quite Will's, but his and Will's match.

They are, quite literally, everything to each other, melted together in a perfect blend. Will smiles up at him, trembling, and lifts his head for a kiss that feels like triumph; the first tear into living flesh. The hot rush of blood over bare hands. The endless, endless hunger finally satisfied by his mate's love.

Will is not his enemy. He is not Will's.

He nuzzles Will's bruised neck, pets down his heaving flanks, feels how Will shivers around him from the aftershocks of his orgasm, thighs clinging tight, internal muscles clenching with possessive pleasure. His home is here, planted deep, in front of the altar of his sins. He would not change a single second of it.

Will sighs, petting through his sweaty hair, and kisses his temple, lashes going low. "You still owe me your story," he murmurs, soft and sweet and heavy with exhaustion. "I want to hear it. I want to know everything."

"You will," Hannibal vows, and lifts his head so they can share a smile, and another kiss. "I'll tell you all of it, from the beginning."

Will smiles. Across the vast expanse of time and space where enemies and mates orbit in constant awareness of each other, they finally touch, two monsters both equally suited for each other and utterly content.

Will pets his hair from his face, smile widening. "We can eat, first," he purrs, and Hannibal's throat tightens in answer, he plants another wide, open-mouthed kiss to his mate's steady pulse. "I don't want anything to go to waste."

Hannibal nods. He pulls out, and when they straighten their clothes, he helps Will to his feet and kisses him again, leading him back to the table with a hand upon his cheek. The soup has grown cold, but it's not about that now; pleasure fills him in endless waves, watching Will eat with no hesitation. An honor, certainly, to feed his mate at his table. An incomparable satisfaction, at seeing his offering eagerly accepted. It is how ancient ones much have felt to receive blessings from their old gods.

They eat with their fingers laced, and as Will's belly grows full, with Hannibal's mark inside his stomach and his heart and in his head, Hannibal could not want for anything else. They have all the time in the world, now, to learn and love each other. It feels like evolution, and rebirth. Normally a painful process, and it came with its anxieties and indecision.

But it has been worth it. The warship has come to safe harbor, and the mountain remains tall, softening the heat of the sun in its shadow. Will's smile will nourish him for a thousand years.

Will finishes his meal first, and sits back to watch Hannibal eat, eyes low-lidded and black with satisfaction, wide-pupiled like a contented cat. He drags his fingers down to Hannibal's bare wrist, his smile widening as he feels Hannibal's pulse jump at the contact.

"I want something else from you," he says.

Hannibal nods, alight with eagerness. "Name it."

Will's head tilts, and he draws in a breath. Not a hesitant one, he is steeling himself against no blow. Rather, savoring; the scent of good food and sex and Hannibal, making another home in the hollowed-out pocket of his chest. Hannibal chose well; Will makes a wonderful hollow man.

"I want to see it," he breathes. "Next time."

Hannibal's pulse stutters in surprise, air escaping his lungs. It aches, with something too fierce to be called love and yet too impossible to be anything else. Yes, it is love, he thinks; they love the way monsters do. With claws and passion and unending rivers of blood.

He turns his hand, and brings Will's knuckles to his mouth. Kisses, and says; "It would be my pleasure."

Will smiles. He rises, and pulls Hannibal with him, into a kiss. Into the study. Hannibal paints the walls with Will's pleased cries and bears the claws in his back and the teeth in his neck. It is not a battle. The war is already won. He brings Will into the halls of his memories and his mind and finds a skeletal creature sitting there already, smiling at him in welcome.

Will makes himself at home, and though Hannibal has no intention of ever letting Will go, Will stays. For the night, for the day after. For the weeks and months and years to come.

He stays, and whenever Hannibal brings gifts to their altar, he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may add some timestamps in the future, but for now I consider this done! Amazing how much easier everything is when you don't gaslight and implicate your mate in your murders, Hannibal...
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the fic! Have a great day/night, stay safe, and I'll see you all in the next work <3


End file.
